THREE  NORMANDY 
•INNS' 

BY 

ANNA 

BOWMAN 


ft> 


LIBRARY 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

SANTA  BARBARA 

PRESENTED  BY 

MRS.    ALFRED  W.     INGALLS 


C-    /cx-^w^.^     ^ 


^ 


IN  AND  OUT  OF 

THREE  NORMANDY  INNS 


o 
o 

a 
J 


IN  AND  OUT 


THREE  NORMANDY  INNS 


BY 

ANNA   BOWMAN    DODD 

AUTHOR  OF 

CATHEDRAL  DAYS,"  "  GLORINDA,"  "  THE  REPUBLIC  OF  THE  FUTURE, 

ETC. 


Illustrated  by  C.  S.  REIN  HART 

and 

Other  Artists 


BOSTON 

LITTLE,  BROWN,  AND  COMPANY 
1899 


r/ 


Copyright,  1892, 

BY 

UNITED  STATES  BOOK  COMPANY 


\_A/i  rights  reservtdj] 


TO    EDMUND    CLARENCE    STEDMAN. 

Mj>  Dear  Mr.  Stedman  : 

To  this  little  company  of  Norman  men  and  wom- 
en, you  will,  I  know,  extend  a  kindly  greeting,  if 
only  because  of  their  nationality.  To  your  courtesy, 
possibly,  you  will  add  the  leaven  of  interest,  when 
you  perceive — as  you  must — that  their  qualities  are 
all  their  own,  their  defects  being  due  solely  to  my  own 
imperfect  presentment. 

JVith  sincere  esteem, 

ANNA  BOWMAN  DODD. 

New  York. 


CONTENTS. 


VILLERVILLE. 

CHAPTER 

I.  A  Landing  on  the  Coast  of  France, 


II.  A  Spring  Drive, 

III.  From  an  Inn  Window, 

IV.  Out  on  a  Mussel-bed, 
V.  The  Village,     . 

VI.  A  Pagan  Cobbler,    . 
VII.  Some  Norman  Landladies, 
VIII.  The  Quartier  Latin  on  the  Beach, 
IX.  A  Norman  Household,    . 
X.  Ernestine, 


PAGE 
1 

13 
24 
35 
45 
55 
66 
80 
84 
93 


ALONG  AN   OLD   POST-ROAD. 

XI.  To  an  Old  Manoir, 
XII.  A  Norman  Cure,       .         .        .        . 
XIII.  HoNFLEUR — New  and  Old, 


103 

lis 

127 


DIVES. 


XIV.  A  Coast  Drive, 
XV.  Guillaume-le-Conquerant, 


147 
161 


vm  CONTENTS. 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

XVI.  The  Green  Bench, 1G9 

XVII,  The  Would  that  Came  to  Dives,  .        .177 

XVIII.  The  Conversation  op  Patriots,    .        .        .  183 

XIX.  In  La  Chambre  des  Marmousets,         .        .  188 

TWO   BANQUETS  AT   DIVES. 

XX.  A  Seventeenth  Century  Revival,       .        .  197 

XXI.  The  After-Dinner  Talk  op  Three  Great 

Ladles, 204 

XXII.  A  Nineteenth  Century  Breakfast,     .        .  225 

A  LITTLE  JOURNEY   ALONG  THE   COAST. 

XXIII.  A  Night  in  a  Caen  Attic,       ....  247 

XXIV.  A  Day  at  Bayeux  and  St.  L6,       ,        .        .  266 
XXV.  A  Dinner  at  Coutances,         ....  276 

XXVI.  A  Scene  in  a  Norman  Court,        .        .        .  290 

XXVII.  The  Fete-Dieu— A  June  Christmas,     .        .  302 

XXVin.  By  Land  to  Mont  St.  Michel,       .        .        .318 

MONT  ST.    MICHEL. 

XXIX.  By  Sea  to  the  Poulard  Inn,         .        .        .  335 

XXX.  The  Pilgrims  and  the  Shrine  —  An  His- 
torical Omelette, 350 


LIST  OF   ILLUSTRATIONS. 


GUILLAUME-LE-CONQUERANT — DiVES, 


Frontispiece 


A  Village  Street — Villerville, 

On  the  Beach — Villerville, 

A  Sale  of  Mussels — Villerville, 

A  Villerville  Fish-wife,    .... 

A  Departure — Villerville, 

The  Inn  at  Dives — Guillaume-le-Conouerant, 

Chambre  de  la  Pucelle — Dives, 

Chambre  des  Marmousets— Dives, 

Madame  de  Sevigne, 

Chambre  de  la  Pucelle — Dives, 
Chateau  Fontaine  le  Henri,  near  Caen, 
An  Exciting  Moment — A  Coutances  Interior, 
A  Street  in  Coutances— Eglise  Saint-Pierre, 

Mont  Saint  Michel, 

Mont  Saint  Michel  Snail-gatherers, 


FACING 
PAGE 

18 

24 

36 

46 

66 

144 

168 

194 

204 

224 

248 

302 


334 
364 


VILLERVILLE. 

AN   INN   BY  THE   SEA. 


THREE    NORMANDY   INNS. 


CHAPTER  I. 

A  LANDING  ON  THE  COAST  OF  FEANCE. 


Narrow  streets 
with  sinuous 
curves ;  dwarfed 
houses  with  mi- 
nute shops  j)ro- 
truding  o  n 
i  n  c  h  -  w  i  d  e 
sidewalks:  a 
tiny  casino 
perched  like 
a  bird  -  cag-e 
on  a  tiny  scaffolding- ;  bath-houses  dumped  on  the 
beach;  fishing-smacks  drawn  up  along  the  shore 
like  so  many  Greek  galleys;  and,  fringing  the 
cliffs — the  encroachment  of  the  nineteenth  cen- 
tury— a  row  of  fantastic  sea-side  villas. 
This  was  Villerville. 

Over  an  arch  of  roses ;  across  a  broad  line 
of  olives,  hawthorns,  laburnums,  and  syringas, 
straight  out  to  sea — 


4  THREE  NORMANDY  INNS. 

This  was  tlie  view  from  our  windows. 

Our  inn  was  bounded  by  the  sea  on  one  side,  and 
on  the  other  by  a  narrow  villag^e  street.  The  dis- 
tance between  good  and  evil  has  been  known  to  be 
quite  as  short  as  that  which  laj^  between  these  two 
thoroughfares.  It  was  only  a  matter  of  a  strip  of 
land,  an  edge  of  cliff,  and  a  shed  of  a  house  bear- 
ing the  proud  title  of  Hotel-sur-Mer. 

Two  nights  before,  our  arrival  had  made  quite 
a  stir  in  the  village  streets.  The  inn  had  given 
us  a  characteristic  French  welcome;  its  eye  had 
measured  us  before  it  had  extended  its  hand.  Be- 
fore reaching  the  inn  and  the  village,  however,  we 
had  already  tasted  of  the  flavor  of  a  genuine  Nor- 
man welcome.  Our  experience  in  adventure  had 
begun  on  the  IIa"VT;e  quays. 

Our  expedition  could  hardly  be  looked  upon  as 
perilous :  yet  it  was  one  that,  from  the  first,  evi- 
dently appealed  to  the  French  imagination  ;  half 
Havre  was  hanging  over  the  stone  wharves  to  see 
ns  start. 

'■  Dame,  only  English  women  are  up  to  that ! " 
— for  all  the  world  is  English,  in  French  eyes, 
when  an  adventurous  folly  is  to  be  committed. 

This  was  one  view  of  our  temerity  :  it  was  the 
comment  of  age  and  experience  of  the  world,  of  the 
cap  with  the  short  pipe  in  her  mouth,  over  which 
curved,  downward,  a  bulbous,  fierj^-hued  nose  that 
met  the  pipe. 

"  Oest  J)eau,tout  de  memc,  when  one  is  young — and 
rich."  This  was  a  generous  partisan,  a  girl  with  a 
miniature  copy  of  her  own  round  face — a  copy 
that  was  tied  up  in  a  shawl,  very  snug ;  it  was  a 


THREE  NORMANDY  INNS.  o 

bundle  that  could  not  xoossibly  be  in  any  one's 
way,  even  on  a  somewhat  prolonged  tour  of  obser- 
vation of  Havre's  shipping"  interests. 

"  And  the  blonde  one— what  do  you  think  of  her, 
hein  ?  " 

This  was  the  blouse's  query.  The  tassel  of  the 
cotton  night-cap  nodded,  interrogatively,  toward 
the  object  on  which  the  twinkling  ex-mariner's 
eye  had  fixed  itself — on  Charm's  slender  figure, 
and  on  the  yellow  half -moon  of  hair  framing  her 
face.  There  was  but  one  verdict  concerning  the 
blonde  beauty ;  she  was  a  creature  made  to  be 
stared  at.  The  staring  was  suspended  only  when 
the  bargaining  went  on ;  for  Havre,  clearly,  was 
a  sailor  and  merchant  first ;  its  knowledge  of  a 
woman's  good  points  was  rated  merely  as  its  sec- 
ond-best talent. 

Meanwhile,  our  bargaining  for  the  sailboat  was 
being  conducted  on  the  principles  peculiar  to 
French  traffic  ;  it  had  all  at  once  assumed  the  as- 
pect of  dramatic  complication.  It  had  only  been 
necessary  for  us  to  stop  on  our  lounging  stroll 
along  the  stone  wharves,  diverting  our  gaze  for  a 
moment  from  the  grotesque  assortment  of  old 
houses  that,  before  now,  had  looked  down  on  so 
many  naval  engagements,  and  innocently  to  ask  a 
brief  question  of  a  nautical  gentleman,  pictur- 
esquely attired  in  a  blue  shirt  and  a  scarlet  beret, 
for  the  quays  immediately  to  swarm  with  jerseys 
and  red  caps.  Each  beret  was  the  owner  of  a 
boat ;  and  each  jersey  had  a  voice  louder  than  his 
brother's.  Presently  the  battle  of  tongues  was 
drowning  all  other  sounds. 


6  THREE  NORMANDY  INNS. 

In  point  of  fact,  there  were  no  other  sounds  to 
drown.  All  other  business  along  the  quays  was 
being-  temporarily  suspended ;  the  most  thrilling 
event  of  the  day  was  centring  in  us  and  our  treaty. 
Until  this  bargain  was  closed,  other  matters  could 
wait.  For  a  Frenchman  has  the  true  instinct  of 
the  dramatist;  business  he  rightly  considers  as 
only  an  entr'acte  in  life ;  the  serious  thing  is  the 
scene  de  thedtre,  wherever  it  takes  place.  Therefore 
it  was  that  the  black,  shaky -looking  houses,  lean- 
ing over  the  quays,  were  now  populous  with  frowsy 
heads  and  cotton  nightcaps.  The  captains  from 
the  adjacent  sloops  and  tug-boats  formed  an  outer 
circle  about  the  closer  ring  made  by  the  competi- 
tors for  our  favors,  while  the  loimgers  along  the 
parapets,  and  the  owners  of  top  seats  on  the  shin- 
ing quay  steps,  may  be  said  to  have  been  in  posses- 
sion of  orchestra  stalls  from  the  first  rising  of  the 
curtain. 

A  baker's  boy  and  two  fish-wives,  trundling  their 
carts,  stopped  to  witness  the  last  act  of  the  play. 
Even  the  dogs  beneath  the  carts,  as  they  sank, 
panting,  to  the  ground,  followed,  with  red-rimmed 
eyes,  the  closing  scenes  of  the  little  drama. 

"  Allons,  let  us  end  this,"  cried  a  piratical-looking 
captain,  in  a  loud,  masterful  voice.  And  he  named 
a  price  lower  than  the  others  had  bid.  He  would 
take  us  across — yes,  us  and  our  luggage,  and  land 
us — yes,  at  Villerville,  for  that. 

The  baker's  boy  gave  a  long,  slow  whistle,  with 
relish. 

"  Dame  !  "  he  ejaculated,  between  his  teeth,  as  he 
turned  away. 


THREE  NORMANDY  INNS.  7 

The  rival  captains  at  first  had  drawn  back ;  they 
had  looked  at  their  comrade  darkly,  beneath  their 
berets,  as  they  might  at  a  deserter  with  whom  they 
meant  to  deal  —  later  on.  But  at  his  last  words 
they  smiled  a  smile  of  grim  humor.  Beneath 
the  beards  a  whisper  grew ;  whatever  its  import, 
it  had  the  power  to  move  all  the  hard  mouths  to 
laughter.  As  they  also  turned  away,  their  shrug- 
ging shoulders  and  the  scorn  in  their  light  laugh- 
ter seemed  to  hand  us  over  to  our  fate. 

In  the  teeth  of  this  smile,  our  captain  had 
swung  his  boat  round  and  we  were  stepping  into 
her. 

"  Au  revoir — au  revoir  et  a  hientot  /" 

The  group  that  was  left  to  hang  over  the  para- 
pets 'and  to  wave  us  its  farewell,  was  a  thin  one. 
Only  the  professional  loungers  took  part  in  this 
last  act  of  courtesy.  There  was  a  cluster  of  caps, 
dazzlingly  white  against  the  blue  of  the  sky ;  a 
collection  of  highly  decorated  noses  and  of  old 
hands  ribboned  with  wrinkles,  to  nod  and  bob  and 
wave  down  the  cracked- voiced  "  bojijours."  But  the 
audience  that  had  gathered  to  witness  the  closing 
of  the  bargain  had  melted  away  with  the  moment 
of  its  conclusion.  Long  ere  this  moment  of  our 
embarkation  the  wide  stone  street  facing  the  water 
had  become  suddenly  deserted.  The  curious-eyed 
heads  and  the  cotton  nightcaps  had  been  swal- 
lowed up  in  the  hollows  of  the  dark,  little  windows. 
The  baker's  boy  had  long  since  mounted  his  broad 
basket,  as  if  it  were  an  .ornamental  head-dress,  and 
whistling,  had  turned  a  sharp  corner,  swallowed 
up,  he  also,  by  the  sudden  gloom  that  lay  between 


8  THREE  NORMANDY  INNS. 

the  narrow  streets.  The  sloop-owners  had  linked 
arms  with  the  defeated  captains,  and  were  walking" 
oflf  toward  their  respective  boats,  whistling  a  gay 
little  air. 

"  Colinette  au  bois  s'en  alia 
En  saiitillant  par-ci,  jmr-ld  ; 
Trala  deridei-a.,  train,  derid-er-a-a" 

One  jersey-clad  figure  was  singing  lustily  as  he 
drojjped  Avith  a  sirring  into  his  boat.  He  began  to 
coil  the  loose  ropes  at  once,  as  if  the  disappoint- 
ments in  life  were  only  a  necessary  interruption, 
to  be  accepted  philosoi3hically,  to  this,  the  serious 
business  of  his  days. 

We  were  soon  afloat,  far  out  from  the  land  of 
either  shores.  Between  the  two,  sea  and  river  meet ; 
is  the  river  really  trying  to  lose  itself  in  the  sea, 
or  is  it  hopelessly  attempting-  to  swallow  the  sea  ■? 
The  green  line  that  divides  them  will  never  give 
you  the  answer  :  it  changes  hour  bj"  hour,  day  by 
day ;  now  it  is  like  a  knife-cut,  deep  and  straight ; 
and  now  like  a  ribbon  that  wavers  and  flutters,  ty- 
ing together  the  blue  of  the  great  ocean  and  the  sil- 
ver of  the  Seine.  Close  to  the  lips  of  the  mighty 
mouth  lie  the  two  shores.  In  that  fresh  May  sun- 
shine Havre  glittered  and  bristled,  was  aglow  with 
a  thousand  tints  and  tones :  but  we  sailed  and 
sailed  away  from  her,  and  behold,  already  she  had 
melted  into  her  clifl's.  Opposite,  nearing  with 
every  dip  of  the  dun-colored  sail  into  the  blue 
seas,  was  the  Calvados  coast ;  in  its  turn  it  glis- 
tened, and  in  its  young  spring  verdure  it  had  the 
lustre  of  a  rough -hewn  emerald. 


THREE  NORMANDY  INNS.  9 

"  Que  voulez-votcs,  mesdames  ?  Who  could  have 
told  that  the  wind  would  play  us  such  a  trick  ? " 

The  voice  was  the  voice  of  our  captain.  With 
much  affluence  of  gesture  he  was  explaining — his 
treachery !  Our  nearness  to  the  coast  had  made 
the  confession  necessary.  To  the  blandness  of  his 
smile,  as  he  x)roceeded  in  his  unabashed  recital, 
succeeded  a  pained  expression.  We  were  not  ac- 
cepting the  situation  with  the  true  phlegm  of 
philosophers ;  he  felt  that  he  had  just  cause  for 
protest.  What  possible  difference  could  it  make  to 
us  whether  we  were  landed  at  Trouville  or  at  Yil- 
lerville  ?  But  to  him — to  be  accused  of  betraying 
two  ladies — to  allow  the  whole  of  the  Havre  quays 
to  behold  in  him  a  man  disgraced,  dishonored ! 

His  was  a  tragic  figure  as  he  stood  up,  erect  on 
the  poop,  to  clap  hands  to  a  blue-clad  breast,  and 
to  toss  a  black  mane  of  hair  in  the  golden  air. 

"  Dame  !  Toujours  ete  galant  Jiomme,  moi  !  I  am 
known  on  both  shores  as  the  most  gallant  of  men. 
But  the  most  gallant  of  men  cannot  control  the 
caprice  of  the  wind  !  "  To  which  was  added  much 
abuse  of  the  muddy  bottoms,  the  strength  of  the 
undertow,  and  other  marine  disadvantages  pecu- 
liar to  Villerville. 

It  was  a  tragic  figure,  with  gestures  and  voice  to 
match.  But  it  was  evident  that  the  Captain  had 
taken  his  own  measure  mistakenly.  In  him  the 
French  stage  had  lost  a  comedian  of  the  first  mag- 
nitude. Much,  therefore,  we  felt,  was  to  be  con- 
doned in  one  who  doubtless  felt  so  great  a  talent 
itching  for  expression.  When  next  he  smiled,  we 
had  revived  to  a  keener  appreciation  of  baffled 


10  THREE  NORMANDY  INNS. 

g-eniiis  ever  on  the  scent  for  the  capture  of  that 
fickle  goddess,  opportunity. 

The  captain's  smile  was  oiling-  a  further  word  of 
explanation.  "  See,  mesdames,  they  come  !  the}) 
will  soon  land  you  on  the  beach  !  " 

He  was  pointing  to  a  boat  smaller  than  our  own, 
that  now  ran  alongside.  There  had  been  frequent 
signallings  between  the  two  boats,  a  running  up 
and  doAvn  of  a  small  yellow  flag  which  we  had 
thought  amazingly  becoming  to  the  marine  land- 
scape, until  we  learned  the  true  relation  of  the  flag 
to  the  treachery  aboard  our  own  craft. 

"  You  see,  mesdames,"  smoothly  continued  our 
talented  traitor,  "  you  see  how  the  waves  run  up  on 
the  beach.  We  could  never,  with  this  great  sail, 
run  in  there.  We  should  capsize.  But  behold, 
these  are  bathers,  accustomed  to  the  water— they 
will  carry  you — but  as  if  you  were  feathers  !  "  And 
he  pointed  to  the  four  outstretched,  firmly -muscled 
arms,  as  if  to  warrant  their  powers  of  endurance. 
The  two  men  had  left  their  boat ;  it  was  dancing 
on  the  water,  at  anchor.  They  were  standing  im- 
movable as  pillars  of  stone,  close  to  the  gunwales 
of  our  craft.  They  were  holding  out  their  arms 
to  us. 

Charm  suddenly  stood  upright.  She  held  out 
her  hands  like  a  child,  to  the  least  impressionable 
boatman.  In  an  instant  she  was  clasping  his 
bronze  throat. 

"  All  my  life  I've  prayed  for  adventure.  And  at 
last  it  has  come ! "  This  she  cried,  as  she  was 
carried  high  above  the  waves. 

"  That's  right,  have  no  fear,"  answered  her  car- 


THREE  NORMANDY  INNS.  11 

rier  as  he  plimg-ed  onward,  ploughing  his  way- 
through  the  waters  to  the  beach. 

Beneath  my  own  feet  there  was  a  sudden  swish 
and  a  swirl  of  restless,  tumbling  waters.  The 
motion,  as  my  carrier  buried  his  bared  legs  in  the 
waves,  was  such  as  accompanies  impossible  flights 
described  in  dreams,  through  some  unknown 
medium.  The  surging  waters  seemed  struggling 
to  submerge  us  both  ;  the  two  thin,  tanned  legs  of 
the  fisherman  about  whose  neck  I  was  clinging, 
appeared  ridiculously  inadequate  to  cleave  a  suc- 
cessful path  through  a  sea  of  such  strength  as  was 
running  shoreward. 

"  Madame  does  not  appear  to  be  used  to  this 
kind  of  travelling,"  i^uffed  out  my  carrier,  his  con- 
versational instinct,  apparently,  not  in  the  least 
dampened  by  his  strenuous  plunging  through  the 
spirited  sea.  "It  happens  every  day — all  the  aris- 
tocrats land  this  way,  when  they  come  over  by  the 
little  boats.  It  distracts  and  amuses  them,  they 
say.     It  helps  to  kill  the  ennui." 

"  I  should  think  it  might,  my  feet  are  soaking  ; 
sometimes  wet  feet " 

"  Ah,  that's  a  pity,  you  must  get  a  better  hold," 
sympathetically  interrupted  my  fisherman,  as  he 
proceeded  to  hoist  me  higher  up  on  his  shoulder. 
I,  or  a  sack  of  corn,  or  a  basket  of  fish,  they  were 
all  one  to  this  strong  back  and  to  these  toughened 
sinews.  When  he  had  adjusted  his  present  load 
at  a  secure  height,  above  the  dashing-  of  the  spray, 
he  went  on  talking,  "  Yes,  when  the  rich  suffer  a 
little  it  is  not  such  a  bad  thing,  it  makes  a  i^leas- 
ant  change — cela  leur  distrait.     For  instance,  there 


12  THREE  NORMANDY  INNS. 

is  the  Princess  de  L ,  there's  her  villa,  close 

by,  with  g-reeu  blinds.  She  makes  little  excuses 
to  go  over  to  Havre,  just  for  this — to  be  carried  in 
the  arms  like  an  infant.  You  should  hear  her,  she 
shouts  and  claims  her  hands !  All  the  beach  as- 
sembles to  see  her  land.  When  she  is  wet  she 
cries  for  joy.  It  is  so  difficult  to  amuse  one's  self, 
it  appears,  in  the  great  world." 

"  But,  iicns,  here  we  are,  I  feel  the  dry  sands."  I 
was  dropped  as  lightly  on  them  as  if  it  had  been 
indeed  a  bunch  of  feathers  my  fisherman  had  been 
carrying. 

And  meanwhile,  out  j^onder,  across  the  billows, 
with  \x\vy  gesture  dramatically  executed,  our  treach- 
erous captain  was  waving  us  a  theatrical  salute. 
The  infant  mate  was  grinning  like  a  gargoyle. 
They  were  both  delightfully  unconscious,  appar- 
ently, of  any  event  having  transj^ired,  during  the 
afternoon's  pleasuring,  which  could  possibly  tinge 
the  moment  of  parting  Avith  the  hues  of  regret. 

"  Pour  Jen  hngages,  mesdames " 

Two  drii^ping,  outstretched  hands,  two  berets 
doffed,  two  picturesque  giants  bowing  low,  with  a 
Frenchman's  grace — this,  on  the  Trouville  sands, 
was  the  last  act  of  this  little  comedy  of  our  land- 
ing on  the  coast  of  France. 


CHAPTEK  n. 


A    SPRING   DEIYE. 


The  Trouville  beach  was  as 
empty  as  a  desert.  No 
other  footfall,  save  our  own, 
echoed  along  the  broad 
board  walks ;  this  Boule- 
vard des  Italiens  of  the  Nor- 
mandy coast,  under  the  sun 
of  May  was  a  shining-  pave- 
ment that  boasted  only  a 
company  of  jelly  -  fishes  as 
loungers. 

Down  below  was  a  village, 
a  white  cluster  of  little  wooden  houses ;  this  was 
the  village  of  the  bath-houses.  The  hotels  might 
have  been  monasteries  deserted  and  abandoned,  in 
obedience  to  a  nod  from  Eome  or  from  the  home 
government.  Not  even  a  fisherman's  net  was 
spread  a-drying,  to  stay  the  appetite  with  a  sense 
of  past  favors  done  by  the  sea  to  mortals  more 
fortunate  than  we.  The  whole  face  of  nature  was 
as  indifferent  as  a  rich  relation  grown  callous  to 
the  voice  of  entreaty.  There  was  no  more  hope  of 
man  apparently,  than  of  nature,  being  moved  by 
our  necessity ;  for  man,  to  be  moved,  must  primar- 
ily exist,  and  he  was  as  conspicuously  absent  on. 


14  THREE  NORMANDY  INNS. 

this  occasion  as  Genesis  proves  him  to  have  been 
on  the  fourth  day  of  creation. 

Meanwhile  we  sat  still,  and  took  counsel  to 
gether.  The  chief  of  the  council  suddenly  pre- 
sented himself.  It  was  a  man  in  miniature.  The 
masculine  shape,  as  it  loomed  up  in  the  distance, 
gi'adually  separating-  itself  from  the  backgrround  of 
villa  roofs  and  casino  terraces,  resolved  itself  into 
a  figure  stolid  and  sturdy,  very  browoi  of  leg,  and 
insolent  of  demeanor — swaggering  along  as  if  con- 
scious of  there  being-  a  full-g-roA\Ti  man  buttoned 
up  within  a  boy's  ragged  coat.  The  swagger  was 
accompanied  by  a  whistle,  w^hose  neat  crispness 
announced  habits  of  leisure  and  a  sense  of  the  re- 
fined pleasures  of  life  ;  for  an  artistic  rendering-  of 
an  aria  from  "  La  Fille  de  Madame  Ang-ot "  was 
cutting  the  air  with  clear,  hig-h  notes. 

The  whistle  and  the  brown  legs  suddenly  came 
to  a  dead  stojD.  The  round  blue  eyes  had  caug-ht 
sight  of  us : 

"  Omd-a-a !  "  was  this  young  Norman's  saluta- 
tion. There  was  very  little  trouser  left,  and  what 
there  was  of  it  was  all  pocket,  apparently.  Into 
the  pockets  the  boy's  hands  were  stuffed,  along 
with  his  amazement ;  for  his  face,  round  and  full 
though  it  was,  could  not  hold  the  full  measure  of 
his  surprise. 

"  We  came  over  by  boat — from  Havre,"  we  mur- 
mured meekly;  then,  "  Is  there  a  cake-shop  near  ?  " 
irrelevantly  conclrded  Charm  with  an  unmistak- 
able ring-  of  distress  in  her  tone.  There  was  no 
need  of  any  further  esj)lanation.  These  two  hearty 
young  a^Dpetites  understood  each  other ;  for  hunger 


THREE  NORMANDY  INNS.  15 

is  a  universal  language,  and  cake  a  countersign 
common  among  the  youth  of  all  nations. 

"  Until  you  came,  you  see,  we  couldn't  leave  the 
luggage,"  she  went  on. 

The  blue  eyes  swept  the  line  of  our  boxes  as  if 
the  lad  had  taken  his  afternoon  stroll  with  no  other 
puriDose  than  to  guard  them.  "  There  are  eight, 
and  two  umbrellas.  Soyez  tranquille,  je  vous  atten- 
drai." 

It  was  the  voice  and  accent  of  a  man  of  the 
world,  four  feet  high — a  pocket  edition,  so  to  speak, 
in  shabby  binding.  The  brown  legs  hung,  the 
nest  instant,  over  the  tallest  of  the  trunks.  The 
skilful  whistling  was  resumed  at  once  ;  our  appear- 
ance and  the  boy's  present  occupation  were  mere 
interludes,  we  were  made  to  understand  ;  his  real 
business,  that  afternoon,  was  to  do  justice  to 
the  Lecoq's  entire  ojoera,  and  to  keep  his  eye  on 
the  sea. 

Only  once  did  he  break  down ;  he  left  a  high  0 
hanging  perilously  in  mid-air,  to  shout  out  "Hike 
madeleines,  I  do  !  "  We  assured  him  he  should 
have  a  dozen. 

"  Bien  ! "  and  we  saw  him  settling  himself  to 
await  our  return  in  patience. 

Up  in  the  town  the  streets,  as  we  entered  them, 
were  as  empty  as  was  the  beach.  Trouville  might 
have  been  a  buried  city  of  antiquity.  Yet,  in  spite 
of  the  desolation,  it  was  French  and  foreign ;  it 
welcomed  us  with  an  unmistakably  friendly,  com- 
panionable air.  Why  is  it  that  one  is  made  to  feel 
the  companionable  element,  by  instantaneous  pro- 
cess, as  it  were,  in  a  Frenchman  and  in  his  towns  ? 


16  THREE  NORMANDY  INNS. 

And  by  what  mag-ic  also  does  a  French  village  or 
cit}^  even  at  its  least  animated  period,  convey  to 
one  the  fact  of  its  nationality  ?  We  made  bnt  ten 
steps  progress  through  these  silent  streets,  front- 
ing the  beach,  and  yet,  such  was  the  subtle  enigma 
of  charm  with  which  these  dumb  villas  and  mute 
shops  were  invested,  that  we  walked  along-  as  if 
under  the  spell  of  fascination.  Perhaps  the  charm 
is  a  matter  of  sex,  after  all :  towns  are  feminine,  in 
the  wise  French  idiom,  that  idiom  so  delicate  in 
discerning  qualities  of  sex  in  inanimate  objects,  as 
the  Greeks  before  them  were  clever  in  discovering" 
sex  distinctions  in  the  moral  qualities.  Trouville 
was  so  true  a  woman,  that  the  coquette  in  her  was 
alive  and  breathing"  even  in  this  her  moment  of 
susjDended  animation.  The  closed  blinds  and  iron 
shutters  appeared  to  be  winking  at  us,  slyly,  as  if 
warning"  us  not  to  believe  in  this  nightmare  of 
desolation ;  she  was  only  sleejoing,  she  wished  us 
to  understand ;  the  touch  of  the  first  Parisian 
would  wake  her  into  life.  The  features  of  her 
fashionable  face,  meanwhile,  were  arranged  with 
perfect  comjposure  ;  even  in  slumber  she  had  pre- 
served her  woman's  instinct  of  orderly  grace ;  not 
a  sign  was  awry,  not  a  window-blind  gave  hint  of 
rheumatic  hinges,  or  of  shattered  vertebrse;  all 
the  machinery  was  in  order :  the  faintest  pressure 
on  the  electrical  button,  the  button  that  connects 
this  lady  of  the  sea  with  the  Paris  Bourse  and  the 
Boulevards,  and  how  gayly,  how  agilely  would  this 
Trouville  of  the  villas  and  the  beaches  spring  into 
life! 
The  listless  glances  of  the  few  tailors  and  cob- 


THREE  NORMANDY  INNS.  17 

biers  wlio,  witli  suspended  thread,  now  looked 
after  us,  seemed  dazed — as  if  they  could  not  be- 
lieve in  the  reality  of  two  early  tourists.  A  wom- 
an's head,  here  and  there,  leaned  over  to  us  from 
a  high  window ;  even  these  feminine  eyes,  how- 
ever, appeared  to  be  g-lued  with  the  long-  winter's 
lethargy  of  dull  sleep ;  they  betrayed  no  edge  of 
surprise  or  curiosity.  The  sun  alone,  shining  with 
spendthrift  glory,  flooding  the  narrow  streets  and 
low  houses  with  a  late  afternoon  stream  of  color, 
was  the  sole  inhabitant  who  did  not  blink  at  us, 
bovinely,  with  dulled  vision. 

Half  an  hour  later  we  were  speeding  along  the 
roadway.  Half  an  hour — and  Trouville  might  have 
been  a  thousand  miles  away.  Inland,  the  eye 
plunged  over  nests  of  clover,  across  the  tops  of  the 
apple  and  peach  trees,  frosted  now  with  blos- 
soms, to  some  farm  interiors.  The  familiar  Nor- 
mandy features  could  be  quickly  spelled  out,  one 
by  one. 

It  was  the  milking-hour. 

The  fields  were  crowded  with  cattle  and  women  ; 
some  of  the  cows  were  standing  immovable,  and 
still  others  were  slowly  defiling,  in  i^rocessional 
dignity,  toward  their  homes.  Broad-hipped,  lean- 
busted  figures,  in  coarse  gowns  and  worsted  ker- 
chiefs, toiled  through  the  fields,  carrying  full  milk- 
jugs  ;  brass  ampliorce  these  latter  might  have  been, 
from  their  classical  elegance  of  shajDe.  Plough- 
men appeared  and  disappeared,  they  and  their 
teams  rising  and  sinking  with  the  varying  heights 
and  depressions  of  the  more  distant  undulations. 
In  the  nearer  cottages  the  voices  of  children  would 


18  THREE  NORMANDY  INNS. 

occasionally  fill  the  air  with  a  loud  clamor  of 
speech ;  then  our  steed's  bell-collar  would  jing-le, 
and  for  the  childi-en's  cries,  a  bird-throat,  high 
above,  from  the  heights  of  a  tall  pine  would  pour 
forth,  as  if  in  micontrollable  ecstasj^,  its  rapture 
into  the  stillness  of  this  radiant  Normandy  garden. 
The  song  appeared  to  be  heard  by  other  ears  than 
ours.  We  were  certain  the  dull-brained  sheep 
were  greatly  affected  by  the  strains  of  that  gen- 
erous-organed  songster — they  were  so  very  still 
under  the  pink  apple  boughs.  The  cows  are  al- 
ways good  listeners;  and  now,  relieved  of  their 
milk,  they  lifted  eyes  swimming  with  appreciative 
content  above  the  grasses  of  their  pasture.  Two 
old  peasants  heard  the  very  last  of  the  crisp  trills, 
before  the  concert  ended ;  they  were  leaning  forth 
from  the  narrow  window-ledges  of  a  straw-roofed 
cottage  ;  the  music  gave  to  their  blinking  old  eyes 
the  same  dreamy  look  we  had  read  in  the  ruminat- 
ing cattle  orbs.  For  an  aeronaut  on  his  way  to 
bed,  I  should  have  felt,  had  I  been  in  that  black- 
bird's plumed  corselet,  that  I  had  had  a  gratify- 
ingly  full  house. 

Meanwhile,  toward  the  west,  a  vast  marine 
picture,  like  a  panorama  on  wheels,  was  accom- 
panying us  all  the  way.  Sometimes  at  our  feet, 
beneath  the  seamy  fissures  of  a  hillside,  or  far  re- 
moved by  sweep  of  meadow,  lay  the  fluctuant  mass 
we  call  the  sea.  It  was  all  a  glassy  yellow  surface 
now ;  into  the  liquid  mirror  the  polychrome  sails 
sent  down  long  lines  of  color.  The  sun  had  sunk 
beyond  the  Havre  hills,  but  the  flame  of  his  man- 
tle still  swept  the  sky.     And  into  this   twilight 


A  VILLAGE  STREET — VILLERVILLE. 


THREE  NORMANDY  INNS.  1^ 

there  crept  up  from  the  earth  a  subtle,  delicious 

'  scent  and  smell — the  smell  and  perfume  of  spring — 

of  the  ardent,  vigorous,  unspent  Normandy  spring. 

Suddenly  a  belfry  grew  out  of  the  grain-fields. 

"  Nous  void — here's  Villerville !  "  cried  lustily 
into  the  twilight  our  coachman's  thick  peasant 
voice.  "With  the  butt-end  of  his  whip  he  pointed 
toward  the  hill  that  the  belfry  crowned.  Below 
the  little  hamlet  church  lay  the  village.  A  high, 
steep  street  plunged  recklessly  downward  toward 
the  cliff;  we  as  recklessly  were  following  it.  The 
snapping  of  our  driver's  whip  had  brought  every 
inhabitant  of  the  street  upon  the  narrow  side- 
vv^alks.  A  few  old  women  and  babies  hung  forth 
from  the  windows,  but  the  houses  were  so  low, 
that  even  this  portion  of  the  population,  ham- 
pered somewhat  by  distance  and  comparative  iso- 
lation, had  been  enabled  to  join  in  the  chorus  of 
voices  that  filled  the  street.  Our  progress  down 
the  steeiJ,  crowded  street  was  marked  by  a  pomp 
and  circumstance  which  commonly  attend  only  a 
royal  entrance  into  a  town ;  all  of  the  inhabitants, 
to  the  last  man  and  infant,  apparently,  were  as- 
sembled to  assist  at  the  ceremonial  of  our  entry. 

A  chorus  of  comments  arose  from  the  shadowy- 
groups  filling  the  low  doorways  and  the  window 
casements. 

"  Tiens — it  begins  to  arrive — the  season !  " 

"  Two  ladies— alone — like  that !  " 

"Dame  !  Anglaises,  Americaines — they  go  round 
the  world  thus,  a  deux  !  " 

"  And  why  not,  if  they  are  young  and  can 
pay  ?  " 


20  THREE  NORMANDY  INNS. 

"  Bah  !  old  or  poor,  it's  all  one — they're  never 
still,  those  English ! "  A  chorus  of  croakins: 
laug-hter  rattled  down  the  street  along  with  the 
rolling  of  our  carriage-wheels. 

Above,  the  great  arch  of  sky  had  shrunk,  all  at 
once,  into  a  naiTOw  scollop ;  with  the  fields  and 
meadows  the  glow  of  twilight  had  been  left  behind. 
We  seemed  to  be  pressing  our  way  against  a  great 
curtain,  the  curtain  made  by  the  rich  dusk  that 
filled  the  narrow  thoroughfare.  Through  the 
darkness  the  sinuous  street  and  rickety  houses 
wavered  in  outline,  as  the  bent  shapes  of  the  aged 
totter  across  dimly-lit  interiors.  A  fisherman's 
bare  legs,  lit  by  some  dimly  illumined  interior ; 
a  line  of  nets  in  the  little  yards :  here  and  there 
a  white  kerchief  or  cotton  cap,  dazzling  in  white- 
ness, thrown  out  against  the  black  facades,  were 
spots  of  light  here  and  there.  There  was  a  glimpse 
of  the  village  at  its  supper — in  low-raftered  inter- 
iors a  group  of  blouses  and  women  in  fishermen's 
rig  were  gathered  about  narrow  tables,  the  coarse- 
featured  faces  and  the  seamed  foreheads  lit  up  by 
the  feeble  flame  of  candles  that  ended  in  long,  thin 
lines  of  smoke. 

"  Olie — J/ere  3Iouchard  ! — des  voyageurs  !  "  cried 
forth  our  coachman  into  the  darkness.  He  had 
drawn  up  before  a  low,  brightly -lit  interior.  In 
response  to  the  call  a  figure  appeared  on  the 
threshold  of  the  open  door.  The  figure  stood 
there  for  a  long  instant,  rubbing  its  hands,  as  it 
peered  out  into  the  dusk  of  the  night  to  take  a 
good  look  at  us.  The  brown  head  was  cocked  on 
one  side  thoughtfully ;  it  was  an  attitude  that  ex- 


THREE  NORMANDY  INNS.  21 

pressed,  witli  astonisliingly  clear  emphasis,  an 
immistakable  professional  conception  of  hospital- 
ity. It  was  the  air  and  manner,  in  a  word,  of  one 
who  had  long-  since  trimmed  the  measurement  of 
its  g-raciousness  to  the  price  paid  for  the  article. 

"  Ces  dames  wished  rooms,  they  desired  lodgings 
and  board — ces  dames  were  alone  ? "  The  voice 
finally  asked,  with  reticent  dignity. 

"  From  Havre — from  Trouville,  parp'tH  hateau  !  " 
called  out  lustily  our  driver,  as  if  to  furnish  us, 
gratis,  with  a  passport  to  the  landlady's  not  too 
efiusive  cordiality. 

What  secret  sj^ell  of  magic  may  have  lain  hid- 
den in  our  friendly  coachman's  announcement  we 
never  knew.  But  the  "  jD'tit  bateau  "  worked  mag-- 
ically.  The  figure  of  Mere  Mouchard  materialized 
at  once  into  such  zeal,  such  effusion,  such  a  zest 
of  welcome,  that  we,  our  bag's,  and  our  coachman 
were  on  the  instant  toiling"  up  a  pair  of  spiral 
wooden  stairs.  There  was  quite  a  little  crowd  to  fill 
the  all-too-narrow  landing  at  the  top  of  the  steep 
steps,  a  crowd  that  ended  in  a  long  line  of  waiters 
and  serving--maids,  each  g-rasping*  a  remnant  of 
luggage.  Our  hostess,  meanwhile,  was  fumbling 
at  a  door-lock — an  obstinate  door  that  refused  to 
be  wrenched  open. 

"Augustine — run — I've  taken  the  wrong  key. 
Cours,  mon  enfant,  it  is  no  farther  away  than  the 
kitchen." 

The  long  line  pressed  itself  against  the  low 
walls.  Augustine,  a  blond  -  haired,  neatly -gar- 
mented shape,  sped  down  the  rickety  stairs  with 
the  step  of  youth  and  a  dancer ;  for  only  the  nimble 


22  THREE  NORMANDY  INNS. 

ankles  of  one  accomplished  in  waitzing-  could  have 
trij)ped  as  dexterously  downward  as  did  Augus- 
tine. 

"How  she  lags!  what  an  idiot  of  a  child!" 
fumed  Mere  Mouchard  as  she  joeered  down  into 
the  round  blackness  about  which  the  curving 
staircase  closed  like  an  embrace.  "  One  must  have 
patience,  it  appears,  with  people  made  like  that. 
Ah,  tiens,  here  she  comes.  How  could  you  keep 
ces  dames  waiting  like  this?  It  is  shameful, 
shameful ! "  cried  the  woman,  as  she  half  shook  the 
panting  girl,  in  anger.  "  If  ces  dames  will  enter," 
— her  voice  changing  at  once  to  a  caressing  fal- 
setto, as  the  door  flew  open,  opened  by  Augustine's 
trembling  fingers — "  they  will  find  their  rooms  in 
readiness." 

The  rooms  were  as  bare  as  a  soldier's  baiTack, 
but  they  were  spotlessly  clean.  There  was  the 
pale  flicker  of  a  sickly  candle  to  illumine  the 
shadowy  recesses  of  the  curtained  beds  and  the 
dark  little  dressing-rooms. 

A  few  moments  later  we  wound  our  way  down- 
ward, sjairally,  to  find  ourselves  seated  at  a  round 
table  in  a  cosy,  compact  dining-room.  Directly 
opposite,  across  the  corridor,  was  the  kitchen, 
from  which  issued  a  delightful  combination  of 
vinous,  aromatic  odors.  The  light  of  a  strong, 
bright  lamp  made  it  as  brilliant  as  a  ball-room  ;  it 
was  a  ball-room  which  for  decoration  had  rows  of 
shining  brass  and  copper  kettles — each  as  bur- 
nished as  a  jewel — a  mass  of  sunny  porcelain,  and 
for  cari^et  the  satin  of  a  wooden  floor.  There  was 
much  bustling  to  and  fro.    Shapes  were  constantly 


THREE  NORMANDY  INNS.  23 

passing-  and  repassing  across  the  lighted  interior. 
The  Mere's  broad-hipped  figure  was  an  omniscient 
presence :  it  hovered  at  one  instant  over  a  steam- 
ing saucepan,  and  the  next  was  lifting  a  full  milk- 
jug  or  opening  a  wine-bottle.  Above  the  clatter 
of  the  dishes  and  the  stirring  of  spoons  arose  the 
thick  Normandy  voices,  deep  alto  tones,  speaking 
in  strange  jargon  of  speech — a  world  of  ^ja/ots  re- 
moved from  our  duller  comprehension.  It  was 
made  somewhat  too  plain  in  this  country,  we  re- 
flected, that  a  man's  stomach  is  of  far  more  impor- 
tance than  the  rest  of  his  body.  The  kitchen 
yonder  was  by  far  the  most  comfortable,  the  warm- 
est, and  altogether  the  prettiest  room  in  the  whole 
house. 

Augustine  crossed  the  narrow  entry  just  then 
with  a  smoking  j)ot  of  soup.  She  was  followed, 
later,  by  Mere  Mouchard,  who  bore  a  sole  cm  vin 
blanc,  a  bottle  of  white  Burgundy,  and  a  super- 
naturally  ethereal  souffle.  And  an  hour  after,  even 
the  curtainless,  carpetless  bed-chambers  above 
were  powerless  to  affect  the  luxurious  character  of 
our  di'eams. 


CHAPTEK  m. 

FROM  AN  INN  WINDOW. 

One     travels    a    long'     dis- 
tance,   sometimes,  to  make 
the    astonishing    discovery 
that    pleasure    comes  with 
gf    ^'  ^^  doing  of    very  simple 

things.     AYe  had  come  from 
■y.         "'  over  the  seas  to  find  the  act 

\  of  leaning  on  a  window  case- 

ment as  exciting  as  it  was  satisfying.  It  is  true 
that  from  our  two  inn  windows  there  was  a  de- 
lightful variety  of  nature  and  of  human  nature  to 
look  out  upon. 

From  the  windows  overlooking  the  garden  there 
was  only  the  horizon  to  bound  infinity.  The  Atlan- 
tic, beginning  with  the  beach  at  our  feet,  stoi^ped 
lit  nothing  till  it  met  the  sky.  The  sea,  literally, 
was  at  our  door  ;  it  and  the  Seine  were  next-door 
neighbors.  Each  hour  of  the  day  these  neighbors 
presented  a  different  face,  were  arrayed  in  totally 
different  raiment,  were  grave  or  gay,  glowing  with 
color  or  shrouded  in  mists,  according  to  the  mood 
and  temper  of  the  sun,  the  winds,  and  the  tides. 
The  width  of  the  sky  overhanging  this  space  was 
immense  ;  not  a  scrap,  apparently,  was  left  over 
to  cover,  decently,  the  rest  of  the  earth's  surface — 


THREE  NORMANDY  INNS.  25 

of  that  one  was  quite  certain  in  looking-  at  this  vast 
inverted  cuid  overflowing-  with  ether.  What  there 
was  of  land  was  a  very  sketchy  xierformance.  Op- 
posite ran  the  red  line  of  the  Havre  headlands. 
Following-  the  river,  inland,  there  was  a  pretence 
of  shore,  just  sufficiently  outlined,  like  a  j'outh's 
beard,  to  g-ive  substance  to  one's  belief  in  its  future 
g-rowth  and  development.  Beneath  these  windows 
the  water,  hemmed  in  by  this  edge  of  shore,  pant- 
ed, like  a  child  at  play ;  its  sig-hs,  liquid,  lisping-, 
were  irresistible  ;  one  found  oneself  listening-  for 
the  sound  of  them  as  if  they  had  issued  from  a 
human  throat.  The  humming-  of  the  bees  in  the 
g-arden,  the  cry  of  a  fisherman  calling  across  the 
water,  the  shout  of  the  children  below  on  the 
beach,  or,  at  twilight,  the  chorussing  birds,  carol- 
ling at  full  Concert  pitch ;  this,  at  most,  was  all  the 
sound  and  fury  the  sea-beach  yielded. 

The  windows  opening  on  the  village  street  let 
in  a  noise  as  tumultuous  as  the  sea  was  silent. 
The  hubbub  of  a  perpetual  babble,  all  the  louder 
for  being  compressed  within  narrow  space,  was 
always  to  be  heard ;  it  ceased  only  when  the  vil- 
lage slej)t.  There  was  an  incessant  clicking  ac- 
companiment to  this  noisy  street  life ;  a  music 
played  from  early  dawn  to  dusk  over  the  pave- 
ment's rough  cobbles — the  click  clack,  click  clack 
of  the  countless  wooden  sabots. 

Part  of  this  clamor  in  the  streets  was  due  to  the 
fact  that  the  village,  as  a  village,  appeared  to  be 
doing  a  tremendous  business  with  the  sea. 

Men  and  women  were  perjjetually  going  to  and 
coming    from    the    beach.       Fishermen,    sailors. 


26  THREE  NORMANDY  INNS. 

women  bearing-  nets,  oars,  masts,  and  sails  -, 
chiklren  bending  beueatli  the  weight  of  baskets 
filled  with  kicking  fish;  wheelbarrows  stocked 
high  with  sea-food  and  warm  clothing;  all  this 
commerce  with  the  sea  made  the  life  in  these 
streets  a  more  animated  performance  than  is  com- 
moidy  seen  in  French  villages. 

In  time,  the  provincial  mania  began  to  work  in 
our  veins. 

To  watch  our  neighbors,  to  keep  an  e^'e  on 
this  life — this  became,  after  a  few  days,  the  chief 
occupation  of  our  waking  hours. 

The  windows  of  our  rooms  fronting  on  the 
street  were  peculiarly  well  adapted  for  this  un- 
mannerly occupation.  By  merely  oiDening  the 
blinds,  we  could  keep  an  eye  on  the  entire  village. 
Not  a  cat  could  cross  the  street  without  undergo- 
ing inspection.  Augustine,  for  example,  who, 
once  having  turned  her  back  on  the  inn  windows, 
believed  herself  entirely  cut  off  from  observation, 
was  perilously  exposed  to  our  mercy.  We  knew 
all  the  secrets  of  her  thieving  habits ;  we  could 
count,  to  a  second,  the  time  she  stole  from  the 
Mere,  her  employer,  to  squander  in  smiles  and 
dimples  at  the  corner  creamery.  There  a  tall 
Norman  rained  admiration  upon  her  through  wide 
blue  eyes,  as  he  patted,  caressingly,  the  pots  of 
blond  butter,  just  the  color  of  her  hair,  before 
laying  them,  later,  tenderly  in  her  open  palm. 
Soon,  as  our  acquaintance  with  our  neighbors 
deepened  into  something  like  intimacy,  we  came 
to  know  their  habits  of  mind  as  we  did  their  facial 
peculiarities;    certain    of    their  actions  made  an 


THREE  NORMANDY  INNS.  27 

event  in  our  day.  It  became  a  serious  matter  of 
conjecture  as  to  whether  Madame  de  Tours,  the 
social  swell  of  the  town,  would  or  would  not  offer 
up  her  prayer  to  Deity,  accompanied  by  Frij)onne, 
her  black  i)oodle.  If  Friponne  issued  forth  from 
the  narrow  door,  in  company  with  her  austere  mis- 
tress, the  shining-  black  silk  g-own,  we  knew,  would 
not  decorate  the  angular  frame  of  this  aristocratic 
provincial ;  a  sober  beige  was  best  fitted  to  resist 
the  dashes  made  by  Friponne's  sharply-trimmed 
nails.  It  was  for  this,  to  don  a  silk  g-own  in  full 
sight  of  her  neighbors  ;  to  set  up  as  companion  a 
dog-  of  the  highest  fashion,  the  very  purest  of 
caniches,  that  twenty  years  of  patient  nursing-  a 
paralytic  husband — who  died  all  too  slowly — had 
been  counted  as  nothing ! 

Once  we  were  summoned  to  our  outlook  by  the 
vigorous  beating-  of  a  drum.  Madame  Mouchard 
and  Augustine  were  already  at  their  own  post  of 
observation — the  open  inn  door.  The  rest  of  the 
village  was  in  full  attendance,  for  it  was  not  every 
day  in  the  week  that  the  "tambour,"  the  town- 
crier,  had  business  enough  to  render  his  appear- 
ance, in  his  official  capacity,  necessary ;  as  a  mere 
townsman  he  was  to  be  seen  any  hour  of  the  day, 
as  drunk  as  a  lord,  at  the  sign  of  "  L'Ami  Fidele." 
His  voice,  as  it  rolled  out  the  words  of  his  cry, 
was  as  staccato  in  pitch  as  any  org-an  can  be  whose 
practice  is  largely  confined  to  unceasing-  calls  for 
potations.  To  the  listening-  crowd,  the  thick  voice 
was  shouting  : 

"  Bladame  Tricot — a  la  messe — dimanche — a — 
perdu  une  brocJie — or  et  perles — avec  cheveux — 3Ia- 


28  THREE  NORMAN DT  INNS. 

dame  Merle  aj^crdu — sur  la  plage — im  imnier  avec 
— un  chat  noir " 

AVe  ourselves,  to  our  astonishment,  were  drum- 
med the  very  next  morning-.  Augustine  had 
made  the  discovery  of  a  missing-  shouhler-cape ; 
she  had  taken  it  upon  herself  to  call  in  the  drum- 
mer. So  great  was  the  attendance  of  villag"ers, 
even  the  abstractors  of  the  lost  garment  must,  we 
were  certain,  be  among  the  crowd  assembled  to 
hear  our  names  shouted  out  on  the  still  air.  We 
were  greatly  affected  by  the  publicity  of  the  occa- 
sion ;  but  the  village  heard  the  announcement, 
both  of  our  names  and  of  our  loss,  with  the  phlegm 
of  indifference.  "  Vingf  francs  jyoiir  avoir  famhour- 
ine  mademoiselle  ! "  This  was  an  item  which  a 
week  later,  in  madame's  little  bill,  was  not  con- 
fronted with  indifference. 

"  It  gives  one  the  feeling  of  having  had  relations 
with  a  wandering  circus,"  remarked  the  young 
philosopher  at  my  side. 

"But  it  is  really  a  great  convenience,  that 
system,"  she  continued ;  "  I'm  always  mislaying 
things — and  through  the  drummer  there's  a  whole 
village  as  aid  to  find  a  lost  article.  I  shall,  doubt- 
less, always  have  that,  now,  in  my  bills !  "  And 
Charm,  with  an  air  of  serene  confidence  in  the  vil- 
lage, adjusted  her  restored  shoulder-cape. 

Down  below,  in  our  neighbor's  garden — the  one 
adjoining  our  own  and  facing  the  sea — a  new  and 
old  world  of  fashion  in  capes  and  other  garments 
were  a-flutter  in  the  breeze,  morning  after  morn- 
ing. Who  and  what  was  this  neighbor,  that  he 
should  have  so  curious  and  eccentric  a  taste  in 


THREE  NORMANDY  INNS.  29 

clothes  %  No  woman  was  to  be  seen  in  the  garden- 
paths  ;  a  man,  in  a  butler's  apron  and  a  silk  skull- 
cap, came  and  went,  his  arms  jailed  liig-li  with 
gowns  and  scarves,  and  all  manner  of  strange  odds 
and  ends.  Each  morning  some  new  assortment  of 
garments  met  our  wondering  eyes.  Sometimes  it 
was  a  collection  of  Empire  embroidered  costumes 
that  were  hung  out  on  the  line  ;  faded  fleur-de-lis, 
sprigs  of  dainty  lilies  and  roses,  gold-embossed 
Emjiire  coats,  strewn  thick  with  seed-pearls  on 
satins  softened  by  time  into  melting  shades.  When 
next  we  looked  the  court  of  Napoleon  had  van- 
ished, and  the  Bourbon  j^eriod  was,  literally,  in  full 
swing.  A  frou-frou  of  laces,  coats  with  deep  skirts, 
and  beribboned  trousers  would  be  fluttering  airily 
in  the  soft  May  air.  Once,  in  fine  contrast  to 
these  courtl}^  splendors,  was  a  wondrous  assort- 
ment of  flannel  petticoats.  They  were  of  every 
hue — red,  yellow,  brown,  pink,  patched,  darned, 
wide-skirted,  plaited,  ruffled — they  appeared  to 
represent  the  taste  and  requirement  of  every  cli- 
mate and  country,  if  one  could  judge  by  the 
thickness  of  some  and  the  gossamer  tissues  of 
others  ;  but  even  the  smartest  were  obviously,  un- 
mistakably, effrontedly,  flannel  petticoats. 

It  was  a  mystery  that  greatly  intrigued  us.  One 
morning  the  mystery  was  solved.  A  whiff  of  to- 
bacco from  an  upper  window  came  along  with  a 
puff  of  wind.  It  was  a  heated  whiff,  in  spite  of 
the  cooling  breeze.  It  was  from  a  pipe,  a  short, 
black  pipe,  owned  by  some  one  in  the  Mansard 
window  next  door.  There  was  the  round  disk  of  a 
dark-blue  beret  drooping  over  the  pipe.    "  Good — " 


30  THREE  NORXTANDF  INNS. 

I  said  to  myself— "I  shall  see  now — at  last — this 
maniac  with  a  taste  for  darned  petticoats  !  " 

The  pipe  smoked  peacefully,  steadily  on.  The 
beret  was  motionless.  Betweeen  the  pipe  and  the 
cap  was  a  man's  profile ;  it  was  too  much  in  shadow 
to  be  clearly  defined. 

The  next  instant  the  man's  face  was  in  full  sun- 
lig"ht.  The  face  turned  toward  me — with  the  quick 
instinct  of  knowing-  itself  watched — and  then — 

"Pas— possible  !  " 

"  You— here !  " 

"  Been  here  a  year — but  you,  when  did  you  ar- 
rive %    What  luck  !     TMiat  luck  !  " 

It  was  John  Eenard,  the  artist :  after  the  first 
salutations  question  followed  question. 

"  Are  you  alone  ? " 

"  No." 

"  Is  she — young  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  Pretty  %  " 

"Judge  for  yourself — that  is  she — in  the  garden 
yonder." 

The  beret  dipped  itself  perilously  out  into  the 
sky — to  take  a  full  view. 

"  Hem — I'll  come  in  at  once." 

It  was  as  a  trio  that  the  conversation  was  con- 
tinued later,  in  the  garden.  But  Eenard  was  still 
chief  questioner. 

"  Have  you  been  out  on  the  mussel-beds  ?  " 

"  Not  yet." 

"  "We'll  go  this  afternoon — Have  you  been  to 
Honfleur  ?  Not  yet  ? — We'll  go  to-morrow.  The 
tide  will  be  in  to-day  about  four — I'll  call  for  you 


THREE  NORM  AND  T  INNS.  31 

— wear  heavy  boots  and  old  clothes.  It's  jolly 
dirty.     T\Tiere  do  you  breakfast  ?  " 

The  breakfast  was  eateu^  as  a  trio,  at  our  inn,  an 
hour  later.  It  was  so  warm  a  day,  it  was  served 
under  one  of  the  arbors.  Augustine  was  feeding- 
and  caressing  the  doves  as  we  entered  the  inn 
garden.  At  sight  of  Eenard  she  dropped  a  quiet 
courtesy,  smiles  and  roses  struggling  for  a  su- 
premacy on  her  round  peasant  face.  She  let  the 
doves  loose  at  once,  saying :  "  Allez,  allez,"  as  if 
they  quite  understood  that  with  Monsieur  Ke- 
nard's  advent  their  hour  of  success  was  at  an  end. 

Why  does  a  man's  presence  always  seem  to  com- 
municate such  surprising  animation  to  a  woman 
— to  any  woman  ?  ^liy  does  his  apj^earance,  for 
instance,  suddenly,  miraculously  stiflfen  the  sauces, 
lure  from  the  cellar  bottles  incrusted  with  the 
gray  of  thick  cobwebs,  give  an  added  drop  of  the 
lemon  to  the  mayonnaise,  and  make  an  omelette 
to  swim  in  a  sea  of  butter?  All  these  added 
touches  to  our  commonly  admirable  breakfast 
were  conspicuous  that  day — it  was  a  breakfast  for 
a  prince  and  a  gourmet. 

"  The  Mere  can  cook — when  she  gives  her  mind 
to  it,"  was  Kenard's  meagre  masculine  comment, 
as  the  last  morsel  of  the  golden  omelette  disap- 
peared behind  his  mustache. 

It  was  a  gay  little  breakfast,  with  the  circling 
above  of  the  birds  and  the  doves.  There  are  dull- 
er forms  of  pleasure  than  to  eat  a  repast  in  the 
company  of  an  artist.  I  know  not  why  it  is,  but  it 
has  always  seemed  to  me  that  the  man  who  lives 
only  to  copy  life  appears  to  get  far  more  out  of  it 


32  THREE  NORMANDY  INNS. 

than  those  who  make  a  point  of  seeing  nothing  in 
it  save  themselves. 

Renard,  meanwhile,  was  taking  pains  to  assure 
lis  that  in  less  than  a  month  the  Villerville  beaches 
would  be  crowded  ;  only  the  artists  of  the  brushes 
were  here  now;  the  artists  of  high  life  would 
scarcely  be  found  deserting  the  Avenue  des  Aca- 
cias before  June. 

"  French  people  are  always  coming  to  the  sea- 
shore, you  know — or  trying  to  come.  It's  a  part 
of  their  emotional  religion  to  worship  the  sea. 
'  La  mer !  la  mer ! '  i\iey  cry,  with  eyes  all  whites  ; 
then  they  go  into  little  swoons  of  rapture — I  can 
see  them  now,  attitudinizing  in  salons  and  at 
tables-d'hote !  "  To  which  comment  we  could  find 
no  more  original  rejoinder  than  our  laughter. 

It  was  a  da}^  when  laughter  was  good ;  it  put  one 
in  closer  relations  with  the  universal  smiling. 
There  are  certain  days  when  nature  seems  to  laugh 
aloud  ;  in  this  hour  of  noon  the  entire  universe,  all 
we  could  see  of  it,  was  on  a  broad  grin.  Every- 
thing moved,  or  danced,  or  sang ;  the  leaves  were 
each  alive,  trembling,  quivering,  shaking :  the  in- 
sect hum  was  like  a  Wagnerian  chorus,  deafening 
to  the  ear ;  there  was  a  brisk,  light  breeze  stining 
— a  breeze  that  moved  the  higher  branches  of  the 
trees  as  if  it  had  been  an  arm  :  that  rippled  the 
grass ;  that  tossed  the  wavelets  of  the  sea  into 
such  foam  that  they  seemed  over-running  with 
laughter ;  and  such  was  still  its  unspent  energy 
that  it  sent  the  Seine  with  a  bound  up  through  its 
shores,  its  waters  clanging  like  a  sheet  of  mail 
armor  worn  by   some   lusty  wamor.      We  were 


THREE  NORMANDY  INNS.  33 

walking  in  the  narrow  lane  that  edged  the  cliff ;  it 
was  a  lane  that  was  guarded  with  a  sentinel  row 
of  osiers,  syringas,  and  laburnums.  This  was  the 
guard  of  the  cliffs.  On  the  other  side  was  the 
high  garden  wall,  over  which  we  caught  dissolv- 
ing views  of  dormer-windows,  of  gabled  roofs, 
vine-clad  walls,  and  a  maze  of  peach  and  pear 
blossoms.  This  was  not  precisely  the  kind  of 
lane  through  which  one  hurried.  One  needed 
neither  to  be  sixteen  nor  even  in  love  to  find  it  a 
delectable  path,  very  agreeable  to  the  eye,  very 
suggestive  to  the  imaginative  facultj^  exceedingly 
satisfactory  to  the  most  fastidious  of  all  the  senses, 
to  that  aristocrat  of  all  the  five,  the  sense  of  smell. 
Like  all  entirely  perfect  experiences  in  life,  the 
lane  ended  almost  as  soon  as  it  began ;  it  ended 
in  a  steep  pair  of  steps  that  dropped,  precipitously, 
on  the  pebbles  of  the  beach. 

For  some  reason  best  known  to  the  day  and  the 
view,  we  all,  with  one  accord,  proceeded  to  seat 
ourselves  on  the  topmost  step  of  this  stairway. 
We  were  waiting  for  the  tide  to  fall,  to  go  out  to 
the  mussel-bed.  Meanwhile  the  prospect  to  be 
seen  from  this  imj^rovised  seat  was  one  made  to  be 
looked  at.  There  is  a  certain  innate  compelling 
quality  in  all  great  beauty.  When  nature  or 
woman  presents  a  really  grandiose  appearance, 
they  are  singularly  reposeful,  if  3'ou  notice  ;  they 
have  the  calm  which  comes  with  a  consciousness 
of  splendor.  It  is  only  prettiness  which  is  tor- 
mented with  the  itching  for  display ;  and  there- 
fore this  prospect,  which  rolled  itself  out  beneath 
our  feet,  curling  in  a  half -moon  of  beach,  broaden- 


34  THREE  NORMANDY  INNS. 

ing  into  meadows  that  di-opped  to  the  river  edge, 
lifting  its  beauty  upward  till  the  hills  met  the  sky, 
and  the  river  was  lost  in  the  clasp  of  the  shore — 
this  aspect  of  nature,  in  this  moment  of  beauty, 
was  as  untroubled  as  if  Chateaubriand  had  not 
found  her  a  lover,  and  had  flattered  man  by  per- 
suading him  that 

"  La  voix  de  Tunivers,  c'est  mon  intelligence." 


CHAPTEE  IV. 

OUT  ON  A  MUSSEL-BED. 

That   same    afternoon  we  were 
out  on  the  mussel-bed. 

The  tide  was  at  its  lowest. 
Before  us,  for  an  acre  or  more, 
there  lay  a  wide,  wet,  stretch  of 
brown  mud.  Near  the  beach 
was  a  strip  of  yellow  sand ;  here 
and  there  it  had  contracted 
into  narrow  ridges,  elsewhere 
it  had  expanded  into  scroll-like 
patterns.  The  bed  of  mud  and  slime  ran  out  from 
this  yellow  sand  strip — a  surface  diversified  by 
puddles  of  muddy  water,  by  pools,  clear,  ribbed 
with  wavelets,  and  by  little  heaps  of  stones  covered 
with  lichens.  The  surface  of  the  bed,  whether 
pools  or  puddles,  or  rock-heaps,  or  sea-weeds 
massed,  was  covered  by  thousands  and  thousands 
of  black,  lozenge-shaped  bivalves.  These  bivalves 
were  the  mussels.  Over  this  bed  of  shells  and 
slime  there  moved  and  toiled  a  whole  villageful 
of  old  women.  Where  the  sea  met  the  edges  of 
the  mud-flat  the  throng  of  women  was  thickest. 
The  line  of  the  ever-receding  shore  was  marked 
by  the  shapes  of  countless  bent  figures.  The 
heads  of  these  stooping  women  were  on  a  level 


36  THREE  NORMANDY  INNS. 

with  their  feet,  not  one  stood  upright.  All  that 
the  eye  could  seize  for  outline  was  the  dome  made 
by  the  bent  hips,  and  the  backs  that  closed  against 
the  knees  as  a  blade  is  clasped  into  a  knife  handle. 
The  oblong-  masses  that  were  lifted  now  and  then, 
from  the  level  of  the  sabots,  resolved  themselves 
into  the  outlines  of  women's  heads  and  women's 
faces.  These  heads  were  tied  up  in  cotton  ker- 
chiefs or  in  cotton  nightcaps ;  these  being  white, 
together  with  the  long,  thick,  aprons  also  white, 
were  in  startling  contrast  to  the  blue  of  the  sky 
and  to  the  changing  sea-tones. 

Between  these  women  and  the  incoming  tide, 
twice  daily,  was  fought  a  persistent,  unrelenting 
duel.  It  was  a  duel,  on  the  jiart  of  the  fish-wives, 
against  time,  against  the  fate  of  the  tides,  against 
the  blind  forces  of  nature.  For  this  combat  the 
women  were  armed  to  the  teeth,  clad  as  they  were 
in  their  skeleton  muscular  leanness ;  helmeted  with 
their  heads  of  iron  ;  visored  in  the  bronze  of  their 
skin  and  in  wrinkles  that  laughed  at  the  wind. 
In  these  sinewy,  toughened  bodies  there  was  a 
grim  strength  that  appeared  to  know  neither  ache 
nor  fatigue  nor  satiety. 

High,  clear,  strong,  came  their  voices.  The 
tones  were  the  tones  that  come  from  deep  chests, 
and  with  a  prolonged,  sustained  capacity  for  en- 
during the  toil  of  men.  But  the  high-pitched 
laughter  proved  them  women,  as  did  their  loud 
and  unceasing  gossip.  The  battle  of  the  voices 
rose  above  the  swash  of  the  waves,  above,  also, 
another  sound,  as  incessant  as  the  women's  chatter 
and  the  swish  of  the  water  as  it  hissed  along-  the 


THREE  NORMANDY  INNS.  37 

mud-flat's  edg-es.  This  was  the  swift,  sharp,  saw- 
like cutting-  among-  the  stones  and  the  slime,  the 
scrape,  scrape  of  the  hundred  of  knives  into  the 
moist  earth.  This  ceaseless  scraping-,  lung-ing-, 
digging,  made  a  new  world  of  sound — strang-e,  sin- 
ister, uncanny.  It  was  neither  of  the  sea  nor  j^et 
of  the  land — it  was  a  noise  that  seemed  insepar- 
able from  this  tong-ue  of  mud,  that  also  appeared 
to  be  neither  of  the  heavens  above  nor  of  the  earth, 
from  the  bowels  out  of  which  it  had  sprung-. 

The  mussels  clin,^  to  their  slime  with  extraordi- 
nary tenacity  ;  only  an  expert,  who  knows  the  ex- 
act point  of  attachment  between  the  hard  shell  and 
its  soil,  can  remove  a  mussel  with  dexterity.  These 
women,  as  thej'  dipped  their  knives  into  the  thick 
mud,  swept  the  diminutive  black  bivalve  with  a 
trenchant  movement,  as  a  Moor  might  cleave  a 
human  head  with  one  turn  of  his  moon-shaped 
sword.  Into  the  bronzed,  wrinkled  old  hands  the 
mussels  then  were  slipped  as  if  they  had  been  so 
many  dainty  sweets. 

New  and  pung-ent  smells  were  abroad  on  this 
strip  of  slime.  Sea  smells,  strong-  and  salty ; 
smells  of  the  moist  and  damp  soil,  the  bitter-sweet 
of  wetted  weeds,  the  aromatic  flavor  that  shell-life 
yields,  and  the  smells  also  of  rotten  and  decaying- 
fish — all  these  were  inextricably  blended  in  the 
air,  that  was  of  the  keenness  of  a  frost-blig-ht  for 
freshness,  and  yet  was  warm  with  the  softness  of  a 
June  sun. 

Meanwhile  the  voices  of  the  women  were  near- 
ing-.  Some  of  the  bent  heads  were  lifted  as  we  ap- 
proached.    Here  and  there  a  coif,  or  cotton  cap, 


38  THREE  NORMANDY  INNS. 

nodded,  and  the  slit  of  a  smile  would  gape  be- 
tween the  nose  and  the  meeting  chin.  A  high 
good  humor  appeared  to  reign  among  the  groujjs  ; 
a  carnival  of  merriment  laughed  itself  out  in 
coarse,  cracked  laughter ;  loud  was  the  play  of 
the  jests,  hoarse  and  guttural  the  gibes  that  were 
abroad  on  the  still  air,  from  old  mouths  that 
uttered  strong,  deep  notes. 

"  AMi}''  should  they  all  be  old?"  we  queried. 
We  were  near  enough  to  see  the  women  face  to 
face  now,  since  we  were  far  out  along  the  outer 
edges  of  the  bed ;  we  were  so  near  the  sea  that 
the  tide  was  beginning  to  wash  us  back,  along  with 
the  fringe  of  the  diggers. 

"  They're  not — they  only  look  old,"  re^Dlied  Ee- 
nard,  stopping  a  moment  to  sketch  in  a  group  di- 
rectly in  front.  "  This  life  makes  old  women  of 
them  in  no  time.  How  old,  for  instance,  should 
you  think  that  girl  was,  over  there  ?  " 

The  girl  whom  he  designated  was  the  only  fig- 
ure of  youth  we  had  seen  on  the  bed.  She  was 
working  alone  and  remote  from  the  others.  She 
wore  no  coif.  Her  masses  of  red,  wavy  hair  shaded 
a  face  already  deeply  seamed  with  lines  of  pre- 
mature age.  A  moment  later  she  passed  close  to 
us.  She  was  bent  almost  double  beneath  a  huge, 
reeking  basket,  heaped  with  its  pile  of  wet  mus- 
sels. She  was  carrying  it  to  a  distant  pool.  Once 
beside  the  pool,  with  swift,  dexterous  movement 
the  heavy  basket  was  slipped  from  the  bent  back, 
the  load  of  mussels  falling  in  a  shower  into  the 
miniature  lake.  The  next  instant  she  was  stamping 
on  the  heap,  to  plunge  them  with  her  sabot  still 


THREE  NORMANDY  INNS.  39 

further  into  the  pool.  She  was  washing  her  load. 
Soon  she  shouldered  the  basket  again,  filling  it 
with  the  cleansed  mussels.  A  moment  later  she 
joined  the  long,  toiling  line  of  women  that  were 
perpetually  forming  and  reforming  on  their  way 
to  the  carts.  These  latter  were  di*awn  up  near  the 
beach,  their  contents  guarded  by  boys  and  old 
men,  who  received  the  loads  the  women  had  dug, 
dragging  the  whole,  later,  up  the  hill. 

"  She  has  the  Venus  de  Milo  lines,  that  girl," 
Renard  continued,  critically,  with  his  eyes  on  her, 
as  she  now  repassed  us.  The  figure  was  drawn 
up  at  its  full  height.  It  had  in  truth  a  noble  dig- 
nity of  outline.  There  was  a  Spartan  vigor  and 
severity  in  the  lean,  uncorseted  shape,  with  the 
bust  thrown  out  against  the  sky — the  bust  of  a 
young  warrior  rather  than  a  woman.  There  was  a 
hardy,  masculine  freedom  in  the  pliable  motion 
of  her  straight  back,  a  ripple  with  muscles  that 
played  easily  beneath  the  close  bodice,  in  her 
arms,  and  her  finely  turned  ankles  and  legs,  that 
were  bared  below  the  knee.  The  very  simplicity 
of  her  costume  helped  to  mark  the  Greek  severity 
of  her  figure.  She  wore  a  short  skirt  of  some 
coarse  hempen  stuff,  covered  with  a  thick  apron 
made  of  sail-cloth,  her  feet  thrust  into  black  sabots, 
while  the  upper  part  of  her  body  was  covered  with 
an  unbleached  chemise,  widely  open  at  the  throat. 

She  had  the  Phidian  breadth  and  the  modern 
charm — that  charm  which  troubles  and  disturbs, 
haunting  the  mind  with  vague,  unsatisfied  sugges- 
tions of  something  finer  than  is  seen,  something 
nobler  than  the  gross  physical  envelope  reveals. 


40  THREE  NORMANDY  INNS. 

"  I  must  have  her — for  my  Salon  picture,"  calm- 
ly  remarked  Renartl,  after  a  long-  moment  of  scru- 
tiny, his  eyes  following  the  lean,  stately  figure  in 
its  grave  walk  across  the  weeds  and  slime.  "  Yes, 
I  must  have  her." 

"  Won't  she  be  hard  to  g-et  ?  How  can  she  be 
made  to  sit,  a  stiffened  imag-e  of  clay,  after  this 
life  of  freedom,  this  athletic  strugg-le  out  here — 
with  these  winds  and  tides  ?  " 

One  of  us,  at  least,  was  stirred  at  Renard's  calm 
assumption — the  assumption  so  common  to  artists, 
who,  when  they  see  a  good  thing  at  once  count  on 
its  possessorship,  as  if  the  whole  world,  indeed, 
were  eternally  sitting,  agape  with  impatience, 
awaiting  the  advent  of  some  painter  to  sketch  in 
its  portrait. 

"  Oh,  it'll  be  easy  enough.  She  makes  two  francs 
a  day  with  her  six  basketfuls.  I'll  offer  her  three, 
and  she'll  drop  like  a  shot." 

"  I'll  make  it  a  red  picture,"  he  continued,  dip- 
ping his  brushes  into  a  little  case  of  paints  he  held 
on  his  thumb ;  "  the  mussel-bed  a  reddish  violet, 
the  sky  red  in  the  horizon,  and  the  girl  in  the 
foreground,  with  that  torrent  of  hair  as  the  high 
light.  I've  been  hunting  for  that  hair  all  over 
Europe."  And  he  began  sketching  her  in  at 
once. 

"  Bonjour,  mere,  how  goes  it  1 "  He  nodded  as 
he  sketched  at  a  \vi-inkled,  bent  figure,  who  was 
smiling  out  at  him  from  beneath  her  load  of  mus- 
sels. 

"  Pas  mal — e  vous,  31'sieur  Renard  ?  " 

"  All  right — and  the  mortgage,  how  goes  that  «  " 


THREE  NORMANDY  INNS.  41 

"  Pas  si  mal — it'll  be  paid  off  next  year." 

"  Who  is  she  ?     One  of  your  models  ? " 

"  Yes,  last  year's :  she  was  my  belle — the  belle 
of  the  mussel-bed  for  me,  a  year  ago.  Now  there's 
a  lesson  in  patience  for  you.  She's  sixty-five,  if 
she's  a  minute  ;  she's  been  working-  here,  on  this 
mussel-bed,  for  five  years,  to  pay  the  mortg-ag-e  off 
her  farm  ;  when  that  is  done,  her  daug-hter  Aug"us- 
tine  can  marry ;  Aug-ustine's  dot  is  the  farm." 

"  Augustine — at  our  inn  ■?  " 

"  The  very  same." 

"And  the  blonde  —  the  handsome  man  at  the 
creamery,  he  is  the  future "?  " 

"  I'm  sorry  to  hear  such  thing's  of  Augustine," 
smiled  Eenard,  as  he  worked;  "she  must  be  in- 
dulging- in  an  entr'acte.  No,  the  gentleman  of 
Augustine's — well,  perhaps  not  of  her  affections, 
but  of  her  mother's  choice,  is  a  peasant  who  works 
the  farm ;  the  creamery  is  only  an  incidental  di- 
version. Again,  I'm  sorry  to  hear  such  sad  things 
of  Augustine " 

"  Horrors !  " 

"  Exactly.  That's  the  way  it's  done — over  here. 
Will  you  join  me — over  there  ?"  Eenard  blushed 
a  little.  "  I  mean  I  wish  to  follow  that  girl — she's 
going  to  dig  out  yonder.     Will  you  come  ?  " 

Meanwhile  the  light  was  changing,  and  so  was 
the  tide.  The  women  were  coming  inward,  washed 
up  to  the  shore  along  with  the  grasses  and  sea- 
weeds. A  band  of  diggers  suddenly  started,  with 
full  basket  loads,  toward  a  fishing  boat  that  had 
dropped  anchor  close  in  to  the  shore ;  it  was  a 
Honfleur  craft,  come  to  buy  mussels  for  the  Paris 


42  THREE  NORMANDY  INNS. 

market.  The  women  trudged  through  the  water, 
up  to  their  waists ;  they  clustered  about  the  boats 
like  so  many  laden  beasts.  But  their  shrill  bar- 
gaining proved  them  women. 

Meanwhile  that  gentle  hissing  along  the  level 
stretch  of  brown  mud  was  the  tide.  It  was  push- 
ing the  women  upward,  as  if  it  had  been  a  hand — 
the  hand  of  a  relentless  fate — instead  of  a  little, 
liquid  kiss. 

The  sun,  as  it  dipped,  made  a  glory  of  splendor 
out  of  this  commonplace  bank.  It  soaked  the  mud 
in  gold ;  it  was  in  a  royal  mood,  throwing  its  lar- 
gess with  reckless  abundance  to  this  poor  of  earth 
— to  the  slime  and  the  mud.  The  long,  yellow, 
lichen  leaves  massed  on  the  rocks  were  dyed  as  if 
lying  in  a  yellow  bath.  The  sands  were  richly 
colored ;  the  ridges  were  brown  in  the  shadows 
and  burnished  at  the  tops.  In  the  distance  the 
sea- weeds  were  black,  sable  furs,  covering  the  vel- 
vet robes  of  earth.  The  sea  out  beyond  was  as 
rosy  as  a  babe,  and  the  sails  were  dazzlingly  white 
as  they  floated  past,  between  the  sky  and  the  dis- 
tant purple  line  of  the  horizon. 

Meanwhile  the  tide  is  coming  in. 

The  procession  of  the  women  toward  the  carts 
grows  in  numbers.  The  thick  sabots  plunge  into 
the  mud,  the  water  squirts  out  of  the  wooden  shoes 
as  the  strong  heels  press  into  them.  The  straw, 
the  universal  stocking  of  these  women-diggers,  is 
reeking  with  dirt.  Volumes  of  slush  are  splashed 
on  the  bared  skinny  ankles,  on  the  wet  skirts,  wet 
to  the  waists,  and  on  the  coarse  sail-cloth  aprons 
tied  beneath  the  hanging  bosoms.      The  women 


THREE  NORMANDY  INNS.  43 

are  all  drenched  now  in  a  bath  of  filth.  The 
baskets  are  reeking-  with  filth  also,  they  rain 
showers  of  dirt  along-  the  bent  backs.  A  long  line 
of  the  bent  figures  has  formed  on  their  way  to  the 
carts.  There  is,  however,  a  thick  fringe  of  dig-gers 
left  who  still  dispute  their  rights  with  the  sea. 

But  the  tide  is  pushing  them  inward,  upward. 
And  all  the  while  the  light  is  getting  more  and 
more  golden,  shimmery,  radiant.  Under  this  light, 
beneath  this  golden  mantel  of  color,  these  creat- 
ures appear  still  more  terrible.  As  they  bend 
over,  their  faces  tirelessly  held  downward  on  a 
level  with  their  hands,  they  seem  but  gnomes ; 
surely  they  are  huge,  undeveloped  embrj^os  of 
women,  with  neither  head  nor  trunk.  For  this 
light  is  pitiless.  It  makes  them  even  more  a 
j)art  of  this  earth,  out  of  which  they  seem  to  have 
sprung,  a  strange  amorphous  growth.  The 
bronzed  skins  are  dyed  in  the  gold  as  if  to  match 
with  the  hue  of  the  mud ;  the  wet  skirts  are 
shreds,  gray  and  brown  tatters,  not  so  good  in  text- 
ure as  the  lichens,  and  the  ragged  jerseys  seem 
only  bits  of  the  more  distant  weeds  woven  into 
tissues  to  hide  mercifully  the  lean,  sinewy  backs. 

The  tide  is  almost  in. 

In  the  shallows  the  sunset  is  fading.  Here  and 
there  are  brilliant  little  jdooIs,  each  pool  a  mirror, 
and  each  mirror  reflects  a  diflerent  picture.  Here 
is  a  second  skj^ — faintly  blue,  with  a  trailing  saf- 
fron scarf  of  cloud ;  there,  the  inverted  silhouettes 
of  two  fish-wives  are  conical  shapes,  their  coifs  and 
wet  skirts  startlinglj"  distinct  in  tones ;  beyond, 
sails  a  fantastic  fleet,  with  polychrome  sails,  each 


44  THREE  NORMANDY  INNS. 

spar,  masthead,  and  wrinkled  sail  as  sharply  out- 
lined as  if  chiselled  in  relief.  Presently  these  min- 
iature pictiires  fade  as  the  light  fades.  Blacker 
g"rows  the  mud,  and  there  is  less  and  less  of  it ; 
the  silhouetted  shapes  of  the  diggers  are  seen  no 
more ;  they  are  following  the  carts  up  the  steep 
cliffs ;  ev^en  the  sky  loses  its  color  and  fades  also. 
And  the  little  pools  that  have  been  a  burning 
orange,  then  a  darkening  violet,  gay  with  pictured 
worlds,  in  turn  i^ale  to  graj^  and  die  into  the  uni- 
versal blackness. 

The  tide  is  in. 

It  is  flowing,  rich  and  full,  crested  with  foam  be- 
neath the  osier  hedges.  "We  hear  it  break  with  a 
sudden  dash  and  splutter  against  the  cliff  para- 
pets.    And  the  mud-bank  is  no  more. 

Half  an  hour  later,  from  our  chamber  windows 
we  looked  forth  through  the  dusk  across  at  the 
mussel-bed.  The  great  mud-bank,  all  that  black 
acreage  of  slime  and  sea- weed,  the  eager,  strug- 
gling band  of  toiling  fish-wives,  all  was  gone ;  it 
was  all  as  if  it  had  not  been — would  never  be 
again.  The  water  hissed  along  the  beach ;  it  broke 
in  rhythmic,  sonorous  measure  against  the  para- 
pet. Surely  there  had  never  been  any  beds,  or 
any  mussels,  or  any  toiling  fish -wives ;  or  if  there 
had,  it  was  all  a  world  that  the  sea  had  washed 
up,  and  then  as  quietly,  as  heedlessly,  as  piti- 
lessly had  obliterated. 

It  was  the  very  epitome  of  life  itself. 


CHAPTEE  V. 


THE  \t:llage. 


OuE  visit  to  the  mussel-bed, 
as  we  soon  found,  had  been 
our  formal  introduction  to 
the  village.  Henceforth  ev- 
ery door-step  held  a  friend ; 
not  a  coif  or  a  blouse  passed 
without  a  greeting".  The 
village,  as  a  village,  lived  in 
the  open  street.  Villerville 
had  the  true  French  genius 
for  society ;  the  very  houses 
were  neighborly,  cro wdin  g 
close  upon  the  narrow  sidewalk.  Conversation,  to 
be  carried  on  from  a  dormer-window  or  from  oppo- 
site sides  of  the  street,  had  evidently  been  the  first 
architectural  consideration  in  the  mind  of  the 
builders  ;  doors  and  windows  must  be  as  open  and 
accessible  as  the  lives  of  the  inhabitants.  The 
houses  themselves  appeared  to  be  regarded  in  the 
light  of  pockets,  into  which  the  old  women  and 
fishermen  plunged  to  drag  forth  a  net  or  a  knife  ; 
also  as  convenient,  if  rude,  little  caverns  into 
which  the  village  crawled  at  night,  to  take  its 
hea\^  slumber. 

The    door-step    was    the    drawing-room,   and 


46  THREE  NORMANDY  INNS. 

tlie  open  street  was  the  club  of  this  Villerville 
world. 

The  door-way,  the  yard,  or  the  bit  of  g-arden 
tucked  in  between  two  high  walls — it  was  here, 
under  the  tent  of  sky  rather  than  beneath  the 
stuffy  roofs,  that  the  village  lived,  talked,  quar- 
relled, bargained,  worked,  and  more  or  less  openly 
made  love. 

To  the  door-step  everything  was  brought  that 
was  portable.  There  was  nothing,  from  the  small 
boy  to  the  brass  kettle,  that  could  not  be  more 
satisfactorily  polished  off,  in  full  view  of  one's 
world,  than  by  one's  self,  in  seclusion  and  solitude. 
Justice,  at  least,  appeared  to  gain  by  this  passion 
for  oi:)en-air  ministration,  if  one  were  to  judge  by 
the  frequency  with  which  the  Villerville  boy  was 
laid  across  the  parental  knee.  We  were  repeat- 
edly called  U130U  to  coincide,  at  the  very  instant 
of  flagellation,  with  the  verdict  pronounced  against 
the  youthful  offender. 

"  S'il  est  assez  vnichant,  lui  ?  Ah,  mesdames,  what 
do  you  think  of  one  who  goes  forth  dr}^  with  clean 
sabots,  that  I,  myself,  have  washed,  and  behold 
him  returned,  ajn^es  un  tout  ptit  quart  d'heure, 
stinking  with  filth  ?  Bah !  it's  he  that  will  catch 
it  when  his  father  comes  home !  "  And  mean- 
while the  mother's  hand  descends,  lest  justice 
should  cool  ere  night. 

There  were  other  groups  that  crowded  the  door- 
steps; there  were  young  mothers  that  sat  there, 
with  their  babes  clasped  to  the  full  breasts,  in 
whose  eyes  was  to  be  read  the  satisfied  passion  of 
recent  motherhood ;   there  were  gay  clusters  of 


k    VII.LEHMLLE    KI.S11- W  1  KE. 


THREE  NORMANDY  INNS.  47 

young-  Norman  maidens,  whose  glances,  brilliant 
and  restless,  were  pregnant  with  all  the  meaning- 
of  unspent  youth.  The  figures  of  the  fishermen, 
toiling-  up  the  street  with  bared  legs  and  hairy 
breast,  bending-  beneath  their  baskets  alive  with 
fish,  stopped  to  have  a  word  or  two,  seasoned  with 
a  laugh,  with  these  latter  groups.  There  were 
also  knots  of  patient  old  men,  wrecks  that  the  sea 
had  tossed  back  to  earth,  to  rot  and  die  there,  that 
came  out  of  the  black  little  houses  to  rest  their 
bones  in  the  sun.  And  everywhere  there  were 
g-roups  of  old  women,  or  of  women  still  young,  to 
whom  the  look  of  ag-e  had  come  long  before  its 
due  time. 

The  villag-e  seemed  peopled  with  women,  sexless 
creatures  for  the  most  part,  whom  toil  and  the  life 
on  the  mussel-bed  or  in  the  field  had  dried  and 
hardened  into  mummy  shapes.  Only  these,  the 
old  and  the  useless,  were  left  at  home  to  rear  the 
younger  generation  and  to  train  them  to  take  up 
the  same  heavy  burden  of  life.  The  coifs  of  these 
old  hags  made  dazzling  spots  of  brightness  against 
the  gray  of  the  walls  and  the  stuccoed  houses; 
clustered  tog-ether,  the  high  caps  that  nodded  in 
unison  to  the  chatter  were  in  startling  contrast  to 
the  bronzed  faces  bending  over  the  fish-nets,  and 
to  the  blue-veined,  leatherj^  hands  that  flew  in  and 
out  of  the  coarse  meshes  Avith  the  fluent  ease  of 
long  practice. 

With  one  of  these  old  women  we  became  friends. 
We  had  made  her  acquaintance  at  a  poetic  mo- 
ment, under  romantic  circumstances.  We  were  all 
three  watching  a  sunset,  under  a  xDink  sky;  we 


48  THREE  NORMANDY  INNS. 

were  sitting  far  out  on  the  grasses  of  the  cliff. 
Her  house  was  in  the  midst  of  the  grasses,  some 
little  distance  from  the  village,  attached  to  it  only 
as  a  ragged  fringe  might  edge  a  garment.  It  was 
a  thatched  hut ;  yet  there  were  circumstances  in 
the  life  of  the  owner  which  had  transformed  the 
interior  into  a 'luxurious  apartment.  The  owner 
of  the  hut  was  herself  hanging  on  the  edge  of  life: 
she  was  a  toothless,  bent,  and  Avithered  old  rem- 
nant ;  but  her  vigor  and  vivacity  were  those  of  a 
witch.  Her  hands  and  eyes  were  ceaselessly  ac- 
tive ;  she  was  forever  bus\^  fingering  a  fish-net,  or 
polishing  her  Normandy  brasses,  or  stirring  some 
dark  liquid  in  an  iron  pot  over  the  dim  fire. 

At  our  first  meeting,  conversation  had  immedi- 
ately engaged  itself ;  it  had  ended,  as  all  right 
talk  should,  in  friendship.  On  this  morning  of 
our  visit,  many  a  gay  one  having  preceded  it,  we 
found  our  friend  arrayed  as  if  for  an  outing.  She 
had  mounted  her  best  coif,  and  tied  across  her 
shrivelled  old  breast  was  a  vivid  purple  silk  ker- 
chief. 

"  Tiens,  mes  enfants,  soyez  les  bienvemies,"  was 
her  gay  greeting,  seasoned  with  a  high  cackling 
laugh,  as  she  waved  us  to  two  rickety  chairs. 
"  No,  I'm  not  going  out,  not  yet :  there  is  plenty 
of  time,  plenty  of  time.  It  is  you  who  are  good, 
si  aimables,  to  come  out  here  to  see  me.  And  tired, 
too,  hein,  with  the  long  walk  ?  Tiens,  I  had  nearly 
forgotten  ;  there's  a  bottle  of  wine  open  below — 
you  must  take  a  glass." 

She  never  forgot.  The  bottle  of  wine  had  al- 
ways just  been  opened ;  the  cork  was  always  also 


THREE  NORMANDY  INNS.  49 

miraculously  rebellious  for  a  cork  that  had  been 
previouslj"  pulled.  Althoug-h  our  ancient  friend 
was  a  peasant,  her  cellar  was  the  cellar  of  a  gour- 
met. Wonderful  old  wines  were  hers !  Port, 
Bordeaux,  white  wines,  of  vintag-es  to  make  the 
heart  warm ;  each  was  produced  in  turn,  a  differ- 
ent vintage  and  wine  on  each  one  of  our  visits,  but 
no  champagne.  This  was  no  wine  for  women — 
for  the  right  women.  Champagne  was  a  bad,  fast 
wine,  for  fast,  disreputable  j)eople.  "  C'est  tin 
vra{pmso7i,  qui  vous  infecfe,"  she  had  declared  again 
and  again,  and  when  she  saw  her  daughter  drink- 
ing it,  it  made  her  shudder ;  she  confessed  to  hav- 
ing a  moment  of  doubt ;  had  Paris,  indeed,  really 
brought  her  child  no  harm  ?  Then  the  old  mere 
would  shrug  her  bent  shoulders  and  rub  her 
hands,  and  for  a  moment  she  would  be  lost  in 
thought.  Presently  the  cracked  old  laugh  would 
peal  forth  again,  and,  as  she  threw  back  her  head, 
she  would  shake  it  as  if  to  dispel  some  dark 
vision. 

To-day  she  had  dropped,  almost  as  soon  as  we 
entered,  into  a  narrow  trap -door,  descending  a 
flight  of  stone  steps.  We  could  hear  a  clicking  of 
bottles  and  a  rustling  of  straw;  and  then,  behold, 
a  veritable  fairy  issuing  from  the  bowels  of  the 
earth,  with  flushes  of  red  suffusing  the  ribbed,  be- 
wrinkled  face,  as  the  old  figure  straightens  its 
crookedness  to  carry  the  dusty  bottle  securely, 
steadily,  lest  the  cloudy  settling  at  the  bottom 
should  be  disturbed.  What  a  merry  little  feast 
then  began !  We  had  learned  where  the  glasses 
were  kept;  we  had  been  busily  scouring  them  while 


50  THREE  NORMANDY  INNS. 

our  hostess  was  below.  Then  wine  and  glasses, 
along-  with  three  chairs,  were  quickly  placed  on 
the  pine  table  at  the  door  of  the  old  house.  Here, 
on  the  grass  of  the  cliffs,  we  sat,  sipping  our  wine, 
enjoying  the  sea  that  lay  at  our  feet,  and  above, 
the  sunlit  sky.  To  our  friend  both  sky  and  sea 
were  familiar  companions ;  but  the  fichu  was  a 
new  friend. 

"  Yes,  it  is  very  beautiful,  as  you  say,"  she  said, 
in  answer  to  our  admiring  comments.  "  It  came 
from  Paris,  from  my  daughter.  She  sent  it  to 
me ;  she  is  always  making  me  gifts ;  she  is  one 
who  remembers  her  old  mother  !  Figure  to  your- 
selves that  last  year,  in  midwinter,  she  sent  me  no 
less  than  three  gowns,  all  wool !  What  can  I  do 
with  them  ?  C'est  x>oiir  me  flatter,  c'est  sa  maniere 
de  me  dire  qu'ilfaut  viure^your  long(em2)s  f  Ah,  la 
cJierefoIIe  !    But  she  spoils  me,  the  darling ! " 

This  daughter  had  become  the  most  mysterious 
of  all  our  Villerville  discoveries.  Our  old  friend 
was  a  peasant,  the  child  of  peasant  farmers.  She 
would  always  remain  a  peasant ;  and  yet  her 
daughter  was  a  Parisian,  and  lived  in  a  bonbon- 
niere.  She  was  also  married ;  but  that  only  served 
to  thicken  the  web  of  mystery  enshrouding  her. 
How  could  a  daughter  of  a  peasant,  brought  up  as 
a  peasant,  who  had  lived  here,  a  tiller  of  the  fields 
till  her  nineteenth  year,  suddenly  be  transformed 
into  a  woman  of  the  Parisian  world,  gain  the  posi- 
tion of  a  banker's  wife,  and  be  dancing,  as  the  old 
mere  kept  telling  us,  at  balls  at  the  Elysee  ?  Her 
mother  never  answered  this  riddle  for  us;  and, 
more  amazing  still,  neither  could  the  village.    The 


THREE  NORMANDY  INNS.  51 

village  would  slirug  its  shoulders,  when  we  ques- 
tioned it,  with  discretion,  concerning-  this  enigma. 
"  Ah,  dame !  It  was  she — the  old  mere — who  had 
had  chances  in  life,  to  marry  her  daughter  like 
that !  Victorine  was  pretty^yes,  there  was  no 
gainsaying  she  was  joretty — but  not  so  beautiful 
as  all  that,  to  entrap  a  banker,  un  homme  serieux, 
qui  vit  de  ses  rentes  !  and  who  was  generous,  too, 
for  the  old  mere  needn't  work  now,  since  she  was 
always  receiving  money."  Gifts  were  perpetually 
pouring  into  the  low  rooms — wines,  and  Parisian 
delicacies,  and  thick  garments. 

The  tie  between  the  two,  between  the  mother 
and  daughter,  appeared  to  be  as  strong  and  their 
relations  as  complete,  as  if  one  were  not  clad  in 
homespun  and  the  other  in  Worth  gowns.  There 
was  no  shame,  that  was  easily  seen,  on  either  side ; 
each  apparently  was  full  of  pride  in  the  other  ; 
their  living  apart  was  entirely  due  to  the  old 
mere's  preference  for  a  life  on  the  cliffs,  alone  in 
the  midst  of  all  her  old  peasant  belongings. 

"  G'est2^lns  chez-soi,  ici  !  Victorine  feels  that,  too. 
She  loves  the  smell  of  the  old  wood,  and  of  the 
peat  burning  there  in  the  fireplace.  When  she 
comes  down  to  see  me,  I  must  shut  fast  all  the 
doors  and  windows ;  she  wants  the  whole  of  the 
smell,  2^our  fcure  h  vrai  bouquet,  as  she  says.  If 
she  had  had  children — ah  ! — I  don't  say  but  what 
I  might  have  consented ;  but  as  it  is,  I  love  my 
old  fire,  and  my  view  out  there,  and  the  village, 
best !  " 

At  this  point  in  the  conversation,  the  old  eyes, 
bright  as  they  were,  turned  dim  and  cloudy ;    the 


52  THREE  NORMANDY  INNS. 

inward  eye  was  doubtless  seeing  something'  otlier 
than  the  view ;  it  was  resting  on  a  youthful  figure, 
clad  in  Parisian  draperies,  and  on  a  face  rising 
above  the  draperies,  that  bent  lovingly  over  the 
deep-throated  fireplace,  basking  in  its  warmth,  and 
revelling  in  its  homely  perfume.  We  were  silent 
also,  as  the  picture  of  that  transfigured  daughter 
of  the  house  flitted  across  our  own  mental  vision. 

"  The  village  ? "  suddenly  broke  in  the  old  mere. 
"  Dieu  de  Dieu  !  that  reminds  me.  I  must  go,  my 
children,  I  must  go.  Loisette  is  waiting ;  la  jmu- 
vre  enfant — perhaps  suff'ering  too — how  do  I  know  ? 
And  here  am  I,  playing,  like  a  lazy  clout !  Did 
you  know  she  had  had  nn  nini  this  morning  ?  The 
little  angel  came  at  dawn.  That's  a  good  sign ! 
And  what  news  for  Auguste !  He  was  out  last 
night — fishing ;  she  was  at  her  washing  when  he 
left  her.  Tienfi,  there  they  are,  looking  for  him ! 
They've  brought  the  spy-glass." 

The  old  mere  shaded  her  eyes,  as  she  looked  out 
into  the  dazzling-  sunlight.  We  followed  her  fin- 
ger, that  pointed  to  a  j)rojection  on  the  cliffs. 
Among  the  grasses,  grouped  on  top  of  the  high- 
est rock,  was  a  family  party.  An  old  fish-wife  was 
standing  far  out  against  the  sky  ;  she  also  was 
shading  her  eyes.  A  child's  round  head,  crowded 
into  a  white  knit  cap,  was  etched  against  the 
wide  blue ;  and,  kneeling,  holding  in  both  hands  a 
seamaus  long  glass,  was  a  girl,  sweeping  the  hori- 
zon with  swift,  skilful  stretches  of  arm  and  hand. 
The  sun  descended  in  a  shower  of  light  on  the  old 
grandam's  seamy  face,  on  the  red,  bulging  cheeks 
of  the  chubb}'  child,  and  on  the  bent  figui'e  of  the 


THREE  NORMANDY  INNS.  53 

girl,  whose  knees  were  firmly  implanted  in  the 
deep,  tall  .i^frasses.  Bej'ond  the  group  there  was 
nothing  but  sea  and  sk}". 

"Yes,"  the  mere  went  on,  garrulously,  as  she 
recorked  the  bottle  of  old  port,  carrying  table  and 
glasses  within  doors.  "  Yes,  they're  looking  for 
him.  It  ought  to  be  time,  now  :  he's  due  about 
now.  There's  a  man  for  you — good — hon  com  rite  le 
bon  Dieu.  Sober,  saving  too — good  father — in  love 
with  Loisette  as  on  the  wedding  night — ah,  mes 
enfanfs  f — there  are  few  like  him,  or  this  village 
would  be  a  paradise  !  " 

She  shut  the  door  of  the  little  cabin.  And  then 
she  gave  us  a  broad  wink.  The  wink  was  entirely 
by  way  of  explanation ;  it  was  to  enlighten  us  as 
to  why  a  certain  rare  bottle  of  port — a  fresh  one — 
was  being  secreted  beneath  her  fichu.  It  was  a 
wink  that  conveyed  to  us  a  reall}^  valuable  number 
of  facts ;  chief  among  them  being  the  very  obvious 
fact  that  the  French  Government  was  an  idiot,  and 
a  tyrant  into  the  bargain,  since  it  imposed  stupid 
laws  no  one  meant  to  carry  out ;  least  of  all  a  good 
Norman.  What  ?  pay  two  sous  octroi  on  a  bottle 
of  one's  own  wine,  that  one  had  had  in  one's  cellar 
for  half  a  lifetime  ?  To  cheat  the  town  out  of 
those  twopence  becomes,  of  course,  the  true  Nor- 
man's chief  pleasure  in  life.  "WTiat  is  his  rei^uta- 
tion  worth,  as  a  shrewd,  sharp  man  of  business,  if 
a  little  thing  like  cheating  stops  him  ?  It  is  even 
better  fun  than  bargaining,  to  cheat  thus  one's 
own  town,  since  nothing  is  to  be  risked,  and  one  is 
so  certain  of  success. 

The  mere  nodded  to  us  gayly,  in  farewell,  as 


54  THREE  NORMANDY  INNS. 

we  all  three  re-entered  the  town.  She  disap- 
peared all  at  once  into  a  narrow  door-way,  her  arms 
still  clasping-  her  old  port,  that  lay  in  the  folds  of 
her  shawl.  On  her  shrewd  kindly  old  face  came  a 
lig-ht  that  touched  it  all  at  once  with  a  g-low  of  di- 
vinity ;  the  mother  in  her  had  sprung  into  life  with 
sharp,  sweet  suddenness  ;  she  had  caught  the  wail 
of  the  new-born  babe  through  the  open  door. 

The  village  itself  seemed  to  have  caught  some- 
thing of  the  same  glow.  It  was  not  only  the 
splendor  of  the  noon  sun  that  made  the  faces  of 
the  worn  fish-wives  and  the  younger  women  softer 
and  kindlier  than  common ;  the  groups,  as  we 
passed  them,  were  all  talking  of  but  one  thing — of 
this  babe  that  had  come  in  the  night,  of  Auguste  s 
absence,  and  of  Loisette's  sharp  pains  and  her 
cries,  that  had  filled  the  street,  so  that  none  could 
sleep. 


CHAPTEE  VI. 


A    PAGAN    COBBLER. 


At  dusk  that  evening-  the 
same  subject,  with  vari- 
ations, was  the  universal 
topic  of  the  conversation- 
al groups.  Still  Auguste 
had  not  come;  half  the 
village  was  out  watching 
for  him  on  the  cliffs.  The 
other  half  was  crowding- 
the  streets  and  the  door- 
steps. 

Twilight  is  the  classic  time,  in  all  French  towns 
and  villages,  for  the  alfresco  lounge.  The  cool 
breath  of  the  dusk  is  fresh,  then,  and  restful ;  after 
the  heat  and  sweat  of  the  long  noon  the  air,  as  it 
touches  brow  and  lip,  has  the  charm  of  a  caress. 
So  the  door -ways  and  streets  were  always  crowded 
at  this  hour ;  groups  moved,  separated,  formed 
and  re-formed,  and  lingered  to  exchange  their  bud- 
get of  gossip,  to  call  out  their  "  Bonne  nuit,"  the 
girls  to  clasp  hands,  looking  longingly  over  their 
shoulders  at  the  younger  fishermen  and  farmers ; 
the  latter  to  nod,  carelessly,  gayly  back  at  them ; 
and  then — as  men  will — to  fling  an  arm  about  a 


56  THREE  NORMANDY  INNS. 

comrade's  shoulder  as  they,  in  their  turn,  called 
out  into  the  dusk, 

"  AUons,  mon  brave  :  de  Vahsinthe,  toi  ?  "  as  the 
cabaret  swallowed  them  up. 

Great  and  mighty  were  the  cries  and  the  oaths 
that  issued  from  the  cabaret's  open  doors  and 
windows.  The  Villerville  fisherman  loved  Bacchus 
only,  second  to  Neptune ;  when  he  was  not  out 
casting-  his  net  into  the  Channel  he  was  drinking' 
up  his  spoils.  It  was  during  the  sobering  process 
only  that  atiairs  of  a  purely  domestic  nature  en- 
gaged his  attention.  Some  of  the  streets  were 
permeated  with  noxious  odors,  with  the  poison  of 
absinthe  and  the  fumes  of  cheap  brandy.  Noisy, 
reeling  groups  came  out  of  the  tavern  doors,  to 
shout  and  sing,  or  to  fight  their  way  homeward. 
One  such  figure  was  filling  a  narrow  alley,  sway- 
ing from  right  to  left,  with  a  jeering  crowd  at  his 
heels. 

"  Est-il  assez  ridicule,  lui  ?  with  his  cap  over  his 
nose,  and  his  knees  knocking  at  everyone's  door  ? 
Bah  !  gajme  !  "  the  group  of  lads  following  him  went 
on,  shouting  about  the  poor  sot,  as  they  pelted  him 
with  their  rain  of  pebbles  and  paper  bullets. 

"Ah — h,  he  will  beat  her,  in  his  turn,  poor 
soul ;  she  always  gets  it  when  he's  full,  as  full  as 
that " 

The  voice  was  so  close  to  our  ears  that  we  started. 
The  words  appeared  addressed  to  us ;  they  were, 
in  a  way,  since  they  were  intended  for  the  street, 
as  a  street,  and  for  the  benefit  of  the  groups  that 
filled  it.  The  voice  was  gruff  yet  mellow ;  despite 
its  gruffness  it  had  the  ring  of  a  latent  kindliness 


THREE  NORMANDY  INNS.  57 

in  its  deep  tones.  The  man  who  owned  it  was 
seated  on  a  level  with  our  elbows,  at  a  cobbler's 
bench.  We  stopped  to  let  the  crowd  push  on 
beyond  us.  The  man  had  only  lifted  his  head  from 
his  work,  but  involuntarily  one  stopped  to  salute 
the  power  in  it. 

"  Bonsoir,  mesdames  " — the  head  gravely  bowed 
as  the  great  frame  of  the  body  below  the  head 
rose  from  the  low  seat.  The  room  within  seemed 
to  contain  nothing  else  save  this  giant  figure,  now 
that  it  had  risen  and  was  moving  toward  us.  The 
half-door  was  courteously  opened. 

"  Will  not  ces  dames  give  themselves  the  trouble 
of  entering?  The  streets  are  not  gay  at  this 
hour." 

We  went  in.  A  dog  and  a  woman  came  forth 
from  a  smaller  inner  room  to  greet  us  ;  of  the  two 
the  dog  was  obviously  the  personage  next  in  j^oint 
of  intelligence  and  importance  to  the  master.  The 
woman  had  a  snuffed-out  air,  as  of  one  whose  life 
had  died  out  of  her  years  ago.  She  blinked  at  us 
meekly  as  she  dropped  a  timid  courtesy ;  at  a  low 
word  of  command  she  turned  a  pitifully  patient 
back  on  us  all.  There  were  years  of  obedience  to 
orders  written  on  its  submissive  curves  ;  and  she 
bent  it  once  more  over  her  kettles ;  both  she  and 
the  kettles  were  on  the  bare  floor.  It  was  the 
poorest  of  all  the  Villerville  interiors  we  had  as 
yet  seen :  the  house  was  also,  perhaps,  the  oldest 
in  the  village.  It  and  the  old  church  had  been 
opposite  neighbors  for  several  centuries.  The 
shop  and  the  living-room  were  all  in  one  ;  the  low 
window  was  a  counter  by  day  and  a  shutter  by 


58  THREE  NORMANDY  INNS. 

night.  Within,  the  walls  were  bare  as  were  the 
floors.  Three  chairs  with  sunken  leather  covers, 
and  a  bed  with  a  mattress  also  sunken — a  hollow 
in  a  iDine  frame,  was  the  equipment  in  furniture. 
The  poverty  was  brutal;  it  was  the  naked,  un- 
abashed poverty  of  the  middle  ages,  with  no  hint 
of  shame  or  effort  of  concealment.  The  colossus 
whom  the  low  roof  covered  was  as  unconscious 
of  the  barrenness  of  his  surroundings  as  were  his 
own  walls.  This  hovel  was  his  home;  he  had 
made  us  welcome  with  the  manners  of  a  king. 

Meanwhile  the  dog'  was  sniffing-  at  our  skirts. 
After  a  tour  of  observation  and  inspection  he 
wagged  his  tail,  gave  a  short  bark,  and  seated  him- 
self by  Charm.     The  giant's  eyes  twinkled. 

"  You  see,  mesdames,  it  is  a  dog  with  a  mind — he 
knows  in  an  instant  Avho  are  the  right  sort.  And 
eloquence,  also — he  is  one  who  can  make  speeches 
with  his  tail.  A  dog's  tongue  is  in  his  tail,  and 
this  one  Avags  his  like  an  orator !  " 

Some  one  else,  as  well  as  the  dog,  possessed  the 
oratorical  gift.  The  cobbler's  voice  was  the  true 
speaker's  voice — rich,  vibrating",  sonorous,  with  a 
deep  note  of  melody  in  it.  Pose  and  gestures 
matched  with  the  voice ;  they  were  flexible  and 
picturesquely  suggestive. 

"If  you  care  for  oratory — "  Charm  smiled  out 
upon  the  huge  but  mobile  face — "  you  are  well 
placed.  The  village  lies  before  you.  You  can 
always  see  the  play  going-  on,  and  hear  the 
speeches — of  the  passers-by." 

The  large  mouth  smiled  back.  But  at  Charm's 
first  sentence    the  keen  Norman  ej^es  had  fixed 


THREE  NORMANDY  INNS.  59 

their  twinkling-  glitter  on  the  girl's  face.  They 
seemed  to  be  reading  to  the  very  bottom  of  her 
thought  and  being.  The  scrutiny  was  not  relaxed 
as  he  answered. 

"  Yes,  yes,  it  is  very  amusing.  One  sees  a  little 
of  everything  here.  Le  monde  qui  passe — it  makes 
life  more  diverting ;  it  helps  to  kill  the  time.  I 
look  out  from  my  perch,  like  a  bird — a  very  old 
one,  and  caged " — and  he  shook  forth  a  great 
laugh  from  beneath  the  wide  leather  apron. 

The  woman,  hearing  the  laugh,  came  out  into 
the  room. 

"  E%en — et  toi — what  do  you  want  ?  " 

The  giant  stopped  laughing  long  enough  to 
turn  tyrant.  The  woman,  at  the  first  of  his  growl, 
smiled  feebly,  going  back  with  unresisting  meek- 
ness to  her  knees,  to  her  pots,  and  her  kettles. 
The  dog  growled  in  imitation  of  his  master ;  ob- 
viously the  soul  of  the  dog  was  in  the  wrong 
body. 

Meanwhile  the  master  of  the  dog  and  the 
woman  had  forgotten  both  now ;  he  was  continu- 
ing, in  a  masterful  way,  to  enlighten  us  about  the 
peculiarities  of  his  native  village.  The  talk  had 
now  reached  the  subject  of  the  church. 

"Oh,  yes,  it  is  fine,  very,  and  old;  it  and  this 
old  house  are  the  oldest  of  all  the  inhabitants 
of  this  village.  The  church  came  first,  though,  it 
was  built  by  the  English,  when  they  came  over, 
thinking  to  conquer  us  with  their  Hundred  Years' 
"War.  Little  they  knew  France  and  Frenchmen. 
The  church  was  thoroughly  French,  although  the 
English  did  build  it ;  on  the  ground  many  times, 


60  THREE  NORMANDY  INNS. 

but  lip  ag-ain,  only  waiting  tlie  hand  of  the  builder 
and  the  restorer." 

Again  the  slim-waisted  shape  of  the  old  wife 
ventured  forth  into  the  room. 

"  Yes,  as  he  says  " — in  a  voice  that  was  but  an 
echo — "the  church  has  been  down  many  times." 

"  Tais-toi — c'est  moi  qui  parJe,"  grumbled  anew 
her  husband,  giving  the  withered  face  a  terrific 
scowl. 

"  Ohe,  oni,  c'est  toi,"  the  echo  bleated.  The  thin 
hands  meekly  folded  themselves  across  her  apron. 
She  stood  quite  still,  as  if  awaiting  more  punish- 
ment. 

"  It  is  our  good  cure  who  wishes  to  pull  it  down 
once  more,"  her  terrible  husband  went  on,  not 
heeding  her  quiet  presence.  "  Do  you  know  our 
cure  ?  Ah,  ha,  he's  a  fine  one.  It's  he  that  rules 
us  now — he's  our  king- — our  emperor.  Ugh,  he's 
a  bad  one,  he  is." 

"  Ah,  3^es,  he's  a  bad  one,  he  is,"  his  wife  echoed, 
from  the  side  wall. 

"  Well,  and  who  asked  you  to  talk  ?  "  cried  her 
husband,  with  a  face  as  black  as  when  the  cure's 
name  had  first  been  mentioned.  The  echo  shrank 
into  the  wall.  "  As  I  was  telling  these  ladies  " — 
he  resumed  here  his  boot  work,  clamping  the  last 
between  his  great  knees — "  as  I  was  saying-,  we 
have  not  been  fortunate  in  cures,  we  of  our  parish. 
There  are  cures  and  cures,  as  there  are  fagots  and 
fagots — and  ours  is  a  bad  lot.  We've  had  nothing 
but  trouble  since  he  came  to  rule  over  us.  We  get 
poorer  day  by  day,  and  he  richer.  There  he  is 
now,  feeding  his  hens  and  his  doves — look,  over 


THREE  NORMANDY  INNS.  61 

there — with  the  ladies  of  his  household  gathered 
about  him — his  mother,  his  aunt,  and  his  niece — a 
perfect  harem.  Oh,  he  keeps  them  all  fat  and 
sleek,  like  himself  !     Bah !  " 

The  g-runt  of  disgust  the  cobbler  g-ave  filled  the 
room  like  a  thunder-clap.  He  was  peering  over 
his  last,  across  the  oj^en  counter,  at  a  little  house 
adjoining  the  church  green,  with  a  great  hatred  in 
his  face.  From  one  of  the  windows  of  the  house 
there  was  leaning  forth  a  group  of  three  heads ; 
there  was  the  tonsured  head  of  a  priest,  round, 
pink-tinted,  and  the  figures  of  two  women,  one 
youthful,  with  a  long,  sad-featured  face,  and  the 
other  ruddy  and  vigorous  in  outline.  They  were 
watching  the  priest  as  he  scattered  corn  to  the 
hens  and  geese  in  the  garden  below  the  window. 

The  cobbler  was  still  eying  them  fiercely,  as  he 
continued  to  give  vent  to  his  disgust. 

"Mediant  homme  —  lui,"  he  here  whipped  his 
thread,  venomously,  through  the  leather  he  was 
sewing.  "  Figure  to  yourselves,  mesdames,  that 
besides  being  wicked,  our  cure  is  a  very  shrewd 
man ;  it  is  not  for  the  pure  good  of  the  parish  he 
works,  not  he." 

"Not  he,"  the  echo  repeated,  coming  forth  again 
from  the  wall.  This  time  the  whisper  passed  un- 
noticed ;  her  master's  hatred  of  the  cure  was 
greater  than  his  passion  for  showing  his  own 
power. 

"  Religion — religion  is  a  very  good  way  of  mak- 
ing money,  better  than  most,  if  one  knows  how  to 
work  the  machine.  The  soul,  it  is  a  fine  instru- 
ment on  which   to  play,  if  one  is  skilful.      Our 


62  THREE  NORMANDY  INNS. 

cure  has  a  grand  touch  ou  this  instrument.  You 
should  see  the  good  man  take  up  a  collection,  it  is 
better  than  a  comedy." 

Here  the  cobbler  turned  actor ;  he  rose,  scatter- 
ing his  utensils  right  and  left ;  he  assumed  a  grand 
air  and  a  mincing,  softly  tread,  the  tread  of  a 
priest.  His  flexible  voice  imitated  admirably  the 
rounded,  unctuous,  autocratic  tone  peculiar  to  the 
graduates  of  St.  Sulpice. 

"  You  should  hear  him,  when  the  collection  does 
not  suit  him  :  '  3Ies  freres  ef  mes  sa'urs,  I  see  that 
le  hon  Dieu  isn't  in  your  minds  and  your  hearts 
to-day ;  you  are  not  listening  to  his  voice ;  the 
Saviour  is  then  speaking  in  vain  ? '  Then  he 
prays — "  the  cobbler  folded  his  hands  with  a  great 
parade  of  reverence,  lifting  his  eyes  as  he  rolled 
his  lids  heavenward  hypocritically — "  yes,  he  prays 
— and  then  he  i^asses  the  plate  himself  !  He  holds 
it  before  your  very  nose,  there  is  no  pushing  it 
aside  ;  he  would  hold  it  there  till  you  dropped — 
till  Doomsday.  Ah,  he's  a  hard  crust,  he  is ! 
There's  a  tyrant  for  you — la  monarchie  ahsolue — 
that's  what  he  believes  in.  He  must  have  this,  he 
must  have  that.  Now  it  is  a  new  altar-cloth,  or  a 
fresh  Virgin  of  the  modern  make,  from  Paris,  with 
a  robe  of  real  lace  ;  the  old  one  was  black  and  faded, 
too  black  to  pray  to.  Now  it  is  a  huissier,  forsooth, 
that  we  must  have,  we,  a  parish  of  a  few  hundred 
souls,  who  know  our  seats  in  the  church  as  well  as 
we  know  our  own  noses.  One  would  think  a 
'  Suisse '  would  have  done ;  but  we  are  swells  now — 
aver  ce  gaiJlard-la,  only  the  tiptop  is  good  enough. 
So,  if  you  grace  our  poor  old  church  Avith  your 


THREE  NORMANDY  INNS.  63 

presence  you  will  be  shown  to  your  bench  by  a 
very  splendid  g-entleman  in  black,  in  knee-breeches, 
with  silver  chains,  with  a  three-cornered  hat,  who 
strikes  with  his  stick  three  times  as  he  seats  j'ou. 
Bah  !  ridiculous  !  " 

"  Eidiculous !  "  the  woman  repeated,  softly. 

"  They  had  the  cure  once,  though.  One  day  in 
church  he  announced  a  subscription  to  be  taken  up 
for  restorations,  from  fifty  centimes  to — to  any- 
thing ;  he  will  take  all  you  give  him,  avaricious 
that  he  is !  He  believes  in  the  greasing  of  the 
palm,  he  does.  Well,  think  you  the  subscription 
was  for  restorations,  mesdames  ?  It  was  for 
demolition  —  that's  what  it  was  for  —  to  make 
the  church  level  with  the  ground.  To  do  this 
would  cost  a  little  matter  of  twenty  thousand 
francs,  which  would  pass  through  his  hands, 
you  understand.  Well,  that  staggered  the  parish. 
Our  mayor — a  man  ^:»ffis  tro^y  fin,  was  terribly  up- 
set. He  went  about  saying  the  cure  claimed  the 
church  as  his  ;  he  could  do  as  he  liked  with  it,  he 
said,  and  he  proposed  to  make  it  a  fine  modern 
one.  All  the  village  was  Aveeping.  The  church 
was  the  oldest  friend  of  the  village,  except  for 
such  as  I,  whom  these  things  have  turned  pa- 
gan. AYell,  one  of  our  good  citizens  reminds  the 
mayor  that  the  church,  under  the  new  laws,  be- 
longs to  the  commune.  The  mayor  tells  this 
timidly  to  the  cure.  And  the  cure  retorts,  'Ah, 
hien,  at  least  one-half  belongs  to  me.'  And  the 
good  citizen  answers  —  he  has  gone  with  the 
mayor  to  prop  him  up — '  Which  half  will  you 
take '?     The  cemetery,  doubtless,  since  your  charge 


64  THREE  NORMANDY  INNS. 

is   over   the   souls   of  the   parish.'     Ah !    ah !    he 
pricked  him  "well  then  !  he  pricked  him  well !  " 

The  low  room  rang-  with  the  g-reat  shout  of  the 
cobbler's  laughter.  The  dog-  barked  furiously  in 
concert.  Our  own  laughter  was  drowned  in  the 
thunder  of  our  hosts  loud  guffaws.  The  poor  old 
wife  shook  herself  with  a  laugh  so  much  too  vigor- 
ous for  her  frail  frame,  one  feared  its  after-effects. 

The  after-effects  were  a  surprise.  After  the  first 
of  her  husband's  spasms  of  glee  the  old  woman 
spoke  out,  but  in  trembling  tones  no  longer. 

"  Ah,  the  cemetery",  it  is  I  who  forgot  to  go  there 
this  week." 

Her  husband  stopped,  the  laugh  dying  on  his 
lip  as  he  turned  to  her. 

"All,  ma  bonne,  hoAv  came  that  ?  You  forgot  ?  " 
His  own  tones  trembled  at  the  last  Avord. 

"  Yes,  you  had  the  cramps  again,  you  remember, 
and  there  was  no  money  left  for  the  bouquet." 

"  Yes,  I  remember,"  and  the  great  chest  heaved 
a  deej)  sigh. 

"  You  have  children — you  have  lost  someone  ?  " 

"  Helas !  no  living  children,  mademoiselle.  No, 
no — one  daughter  we  had,  but  she  died  twenty 
years  ago.  She  lies  over  there — where  we  can  see 
her.  She  would  have  been  thirty-eight  years  now 
■ — the  fourteenth  of  this  very  month  !  " 

"  Yes,  this  very  month." 

Then  the  old  woman,  for  the  first  time,  left  her 
refuge  along  the  wall :  she  crept  Softly,  quietly 
near  to  her  husband  to  put  her  withered  hand  in 
his.  His  large  palm  closed  over  it.  Both  of  the  old 
faces  turned  toward  the  cemetery ;  and  in  the  old 


THREE  NORMANDY  INNS.  65 

eyes  a  film  gathered,  as  they  looked  toward  all 
that  was  left  of  the  hojDe  that  was  buried  away 
from  them. 

We  left  them  thus,  hand  iu  hand,  with  many 
promises  to  renew  the  acquaintance. 

The  village  was  no  longer  abroad  in  the  streets. 
During  our  talk  in  the  shop  the  night  had  fallen ; 
it  had  cast  its  shadow,  as  trees  cast  theirs,  in 
a  long,  slow  slant.  Lights  were  trembling  in  the 
dim  interiors ;  the  shrill  cries  of  the  children  were 
stilled  ;  only  a  muffled  murmur  came  through  the 
open  doors  and  windows.  The  villagers  were  pat- 
tering across  the  rough  floors,  talking,  as  their  sa- 
bots clattered  heavily  over  the  wooden  surface,  as 
they  washed  the  dishes,  as  they  covered  their  fires, 
shoving  back  the  tables  and  chairs.  As  we  walked 
along,  through  the  nearer  windows  came  the  sound 
of  steps  on  the  creaking  old  stairs,  then  a  rustling 
of  straw  and  the  heavy  fall  of  weary  bodies,  as  the 
villagers  flung  themselves  on  the  old  oaken  beds, 
that  groaned  as  thej^  received  their  burden.  Pres- 
ently all  was  still.  Onl}^  our  steps  resounded 
through  the  streets.  The  stars  filled  the  sky ;  and 
beneath  them  the  waves  broke  along  the  beach.  In 
the  closely  packed  little  streets  the  heavy  breath- 
ing of  the  sleeping  village  broke  also  in  short, 
quick  gasps. 

Only  we  and  the  night  were  awake. 


CHAPTEK  VII. 

SOME  NORMAN  LANDLADIES. 

Quite  a  number  of  changes 
came  about  witli  our  an- 
nexation of  an  artist  and 
his  garden.  Chief  among- 
these  changes  was  the  sur- 
prising discovery  of  find- 
ing ourselves,  at  the  end  of  a  week,  in  possession 
of  a  villa. 

"  It's  next  door,"  Eenard  remarked,  in  the  casual 
way  peculiar  to  artists.  "You  are  to  have  the 
whole  house  to  3^ourselves,  all  but  the  top  floor ; 
the  people  who  own  it  keep  that  to  live  in. 
There's  a  garden  of  the  right  sort,  with  espaliers, 
also  rose-trees,  and  a  tea-house ;  quite  the  right 
sort  of  thing  altogether." 

The  unforeseen,  in  its  way,  is  excellent  and  ad- 
mirable. De  Vimjyrevn,  surely  this  is  the  dash  of 
seasoning — the  caviare  we  all  crave  in  life's  some- 
what too  monotonous  repasts.  But  as  men  have 
been  known  to  admire  the  still-life  in  wifely  char- 
acter, and  then  repented  their  choice,  marrjdng 
peace  only  to  court  dissension,  so  we,  inconti- 
nently deserting  our  humble  inn  chambers  to  take 
possession  of  a  grander  state,  in  the  end  found  the 


A    DEPAKTURE — VILLEKVILl.E. 


THREE  NORMANDY  INNS.  67 

capital  of  experience  drained  to  pay  for  our  little 
infidelity. 

The  owners  of  the  villa  Belle  Etoile,  our  friend 
announced,  he  had  found  greatly  depressed  ,•  of 
this,  their  passing"  mood,  he  had  taken  such  advan- 
tage as  only  comes  to  the  knowing.  "  They  speak 
of  themselves  drearily  as  '  deux  pauvres  malheu- 
reux '  with  this  villa  still  on  their  hands,  and  here 
they  are  almost  '  touching  June,'  as  they  put  it. 
They  also  gave  me  to  understand  that  only  the 
finest  flowers  of  the  aristocracy  had  had  the  honor 
of  dwelling  in  this  villa.  They  have  been  able,  I 
should  say,  more  or  less  successfully  to  deflower 
this  '  fine  fleur  '  of  some  of  their  gold.  But  they 
are  very  meek  just  now — they  were  willing  to  listen 
to  reason." 

The  "  two  poor  unhappies  "  were  looking  sur- 
prisingly contented  an  hour  later,  when  w^e  went 
in  to  inspect  our  possessions.  Thej^  received  us 
with  such  suave  courtesy,  that  I  was  quite  certain 
Renard's  skill  in  transactions  had  not  played  its 
full  gamut  of  capacity. 

Civility  is  the  Frenchman's  mask ;  he  wears  it 
as  he  does  his  skin — as  a  matter  of  habit.  But 
courtesy  is  his  costume  de  hal ;  he  can  only  afi^ord 
to  don  his  bravest  attire  of  smiles  and  gracious- 
ness  when  his  pocket  is  in  holiday  mood.  Madame 
Fouchet  we  found  in  full  ball-room  toilet ;  she  was 
wreathed  in  smiles.  AVould  ces  dames  give  them- 
selves the  trouble  of  entering  ?  would  they  see  the 
house  or  the  garden  first  ?  would  they  permit  their 
trunks  to  be  sent  for  ?  Monsieur  Fouchet,  mean- 
while, was  making  a  brave  second  to  his  wife's 


68  THREE  NORMANDY  INNS. 

bustling-  welcome  ;  lie  was  rubbing  his  hands  vig- 
orously, a  somewhat  suspicious  action  in  a  French- 
man, I  have  had  occasion  to  notice,  after  the  com- 
pletion of  a  bargain.  Nature  had  cast  this  mild- 
eyed  individual  for  the  part  of  accompanyist  in 
the  comedy  we  call  life ;  a  role  he  sometimes 
varied  as  now,  with  the  office  of  cJaqxeiir,  when  an 
uncommonly  clever  proof  of  madame's  talent  for 
business  drew  from  him  this  noiseless  tribute  of 
applause.  His  weak,  fat  contralto  called  after  us, 
as  we  followed  madame's  quick  steps  up  the  waxed 
stairway;  he  would  be  in  readiness,  he  said,  to 
show  us  the  garden,  "  once  the  chambers  were  vis- 
ited." 

"  It  wasn't  a  real  stroke,  mesdames,  it  was  only 
a  warning !  "  was  the  explanation  conveyed  to  us 
in  loud  tones,  with  no  reserve  of  whispered  deli- 
cacy, when  we  expressed  regret  at  monsieur's  de- 
tention below  stairs ;  a  partially  paralyzed  leg, 
dragged  painfully  after  the  latter's  flabby  figure, 
being  the  obvious  cause  of  this  detention. 

The  stairway  had  the  line  of  beauty,  describing 
a  pretty  curve  before  its  glassy  steps  led  us  to  a 
narrow  entry ;  it  had  also  the  brevity  which  is  said 
to  be  the  very  soul,  Vanima  viva,  of  all  true  wit ; 
but  it  was  quite  long  and  straight  enough  to  serve 
Madame  Fouchet  as  a  stage  for  a  prolonged  mono- 
logue, enlivened  with  much  affluence  of  gesture. 
Fouchet's  seizure,  his  illness,  his  convalescence, 
and  present  physical  condition — a  condition  which 
appeared  to  be  bristling  with  the  tragedy  of  dan- 
ger, "un  vrai  drame  d'anxiete  " — was  graphically 
conveyed  to  us.     The  horrors  of  the  long  winter 


THREE  NORMANDY  INNS.  69 

also,  so  sad  for  a  Parisian — "  si  triste  pour  la 
Parisienne,  ces  hivers  de  province  " — tog-ether  with 
the  miseries  of  her  own  home  life,  between  this 
paralj'tic  of  a  husband  below  stairs,  and  above,  her 
mother,  an  old  lady  of  eig-hty,  nailed  to  her  sofa 
with  gout.  "  You  may  thus  figure  to  yourselves, 
mesdames,  what  a  melancholj^  season  is  the  win- 
ter !  And  now,  with  this  villa  still  on  our  hands, 
and  the  season  already  announcing  itself,  ruin 
stares  us  in  the  face,  mesdames — ruin  !  " 

It  was  a  moving  picture.  Yet  we  remained 
straugelj'  unaffected  by  this  tale  of  woe.  Madame 
Fouchet  herself,  the  woman,  not  the  actress,  was 
to  blame,  I  think,  for  our  unfeelingness.  Some- 
hoAV,  to  connect  woe,  ruin,  sadness,  melancholy,  or 
distress,  in  a  word,  of  anj^  kind  with  our  landlady's 
opulent  figure,  we  found  a  diflicult  acrobatic  men- 
tal feat.  She  presented  to  the  eye  outlines  and 
features  that  could  only  be  likened,  in  x)oint  of 
prosperitj^,  to  a  Dutch  landscape.  Like  certain  of 
the  mediaeval  saints  presented  by  the  earlier  de- 
lineators of  the  martyrs  as  burning-  above  a  slow 
fire,  while  wearing-  smiles  of  purely  animal  con- 
tent, as  if  in  full  enjoyment  of  the  temperature, 
this  lady's  sufferings  were  doubtless  an  invisible 
discipline,  the  hair  shirt  which  her  hardened  cuti- 
cle felt  only  to  be  a  pleasurable  itching. 

"  Voila,  mesdames  !  "  It  was  with  a  magnificent 
gesture  that  madame  opened  doors  and  windows. 
The  drama  of  her  life  was  forgotten  for  the  mo- 
ment in  the  conscious  pride  of  presenting  us  with 
such  a  picture  as  her  gay  little  house  offered. 

Inside  and  out,  summer  and  the  sun  were  bloom- 


70  THREE  NORMANDY  INNS. 

ing-  and  shining-  with  spendthrift  luxuriance.  The 
salon  opened  directh'  on  the  garden ;  it  would 
have  been  difficult  to  determine  just  where  one 
began  and  the  domain  of  the  other  ended,  with  the 
pinks  and  geraniums  that  nodded  in  response  to 
the  peach  and  pear  blossoms  in  the  garden.  A  bit 
of  faded  Aubusson  and  a  i^rint  representing  Ma- 
dame Geoffrin's  salon  in  full  session,  with  a  poet 
of  the  period  transporting  the  half-moon  grouped 
listeners  about  him  to  the  jioint  of  tears,  were  evi- 
dences of  the  refined  tastes  of  our  landlady  in  the 
arts  ;  only  a  sentimentalist  Avould  have  hung  that 
picture  in  her  salon.  Other  decorations  further 
proved  her  as  belonging  to  both  worlds.  The 
chintzes  gay  with  garlands  of  roses,  with  which 
walls,  beds,  and  chairs  were  covered,  revealed  the 
mundane  element,  the  woman  of  decorative  tastes, 
possessed  of  a  hidden  passion  for  effective  back- 
grounds. Two  or  three  wooden  crucifixes,  a  ^:>ri€- 
dieu,  and  a  couple  of  saints  in  plaster,  went  far  to 
prove  that  this  excellent  bourgeoise  had  thriftily 
made  her  peace  with  Heaven.  It  was  a  curioiis 
mixture  of  the  sacred  and  the  profane. 

Do^Ti  below,  beneath  the  windows  overlooking 
the  sea,  lay  the  garden.  All  the  houses  fronting 
the  cliff  had  similar  little  gardens,  giving,  as  the 
French  idiom  so  prettily  puts  it,  upon  the  sea. 
But  comjDared  to  these  others,  ours  was  as  a  rose  of 
Sharon  blooming  in  the  midst  of  little  deserts. 
Kenard  had  been  entirely  right  about  this  particu- 
lar bit  of  earth  attached  to  our  villa.  It  was  a  gem 
of  a  garden.  It  was  a  French  g-arden,  and  there- 
fore, entirely  as  a  matter  of  course,  it  had  walls. 


THREE  NORMANDY  INNS.  71 

It  was  as  cut  off  from  the  rest  of  the  world  as  if  it 
had  been  a  prison  or  a  fortification. 

The  Frenchman,  above  all  others,  appears  to 
have  the  true  sentiment  of  seclusion,  when  the  so- 
ciety of  trees  and  flowers  is  to  be  enjoyed.  Next 
to  woman,  nature  is  his  fetich.  True  to  his  na- 
tional taste  in  dress,  he  prefers  that  both  should 
be  costumed  a  la  Parisienne ;  but  as  poet  and  lover, 
it  is  his  instinct  to  build  a  wall  about  his  idol, 
that  he  may  enjoy  his  moments  of  expansion  un- 
seen and  unmolested.  This  square  of  earth,  for 
instance,  was  not  much  larg-er  than  the  space  cov- 
ered by  the  chamber  roof  above  us  ;  and  yet,  with 
the  high  walls  towering  over  the  rose-stalks,  it  was 
as  secluded  as  a  monk's  cloister.  "We  found  it,  in- 
deed, on  later  acquaintance,  as  poetic  and  delicate- 
ly sensuous  a  retreat  as  the  romance-writers  would 
wish  us  to  believe  did  those  mediaeval  connoisseurs 
of  comfort,  when,  with  sandalled  feet,  they  paced 
their  own  convent  garden-walks.  Fouchet  was  a 
broken-down  shojikeeper ;  but  somewhere  hidden 
within,  there  lurked  the  soul  of  a  M£ecenas;  he 
knew  how  to  arrange  a  feast — of  roses.  The  gar- 
den was  a  bit  of  greensward,  not  much  larger 
than  a  pocket-handkerchief ;  but  the  grass  had 
the  right  emerald  hue,  and  one's  feet  sank  into 
the  rich  turf  as  into  the  velvet  of  an  oriental  rug. 
Small  as  was  the  enclosure,  between  the  espaliers 
and  the  flower-beds  serpentined  minute  i:)aths  of 
glistening  jDebbles.  Nothing  which  belonged  to 
a  garden  had  been  forgotten,  not  even  a  pine 
from  the  tropics,  and  a  bench  under  the  pine 
that  was  just  large  enough  for  two      This  lat- 


72  THREE  NORMANDY  INNS. 

ter  was  an  ideal  little  spot  iu  which  to  bring  a 
friend  or  a  book.  One  could  sit  there  and  gorge 
one's  self  with  sweets :  a  dance  Avas  perpetually 
going  on — the  gold-and-i^urple  butterflies  flutter- 
ing gayly  from  morning  till  night ;  and  the  bees 
freighted  the  air  with  their  buzzing.  If  one  tired 
of  i)erfumes  and  dancing,  there  Avas  always  music 
to  be  enjoyed,  from  a  full  orchestra.  The  sea,  jast 
the  other  side  of  the  wall  of  osiers,  was  always  in 
voice,  whether  sighing  or  shouting.  The  larks  and 
blackbirds  had  a  predilection  for  this  nest  of  color, 
announcing  their  x^reference  loudly  in  a  combat 
of  trills.  And  once  or  twice,  we  were  quite  certain, 
a  nightingale  with  Patti  notes  had  been  trying  its 
liquid  scales  in  the  dark. 

It  was  in  this  garden  that  our  acquaintance  with 
our  landlord  deepened  into  something  like  friend- 
ship. Monsieur  Fouchet  was  always  to  be  found 
there,  tying  up  the  rose-trees,  or  mending  the 
liaths,  or  shearing  the  bit  of  turf. 

''  Jlonjardin,  c'esf  un  peu  moi,  vous  savez — it  is  my 
pride  and  my  consolation."  At  the  latter  word. 
Fouchet  was  certain  to  sigh. 

Then  we  fell  to  wondering  just  what  gi-ief  had 
befallen  this  amiable  person  which  required  Hora- 
tian  consolation.  Horace  had  need  of  rose-leaves 
to  embalm  his  disappointments,  for  had  he  not 
cooled  his  j)assions  by  plunging  into  the  bath  of 
literature  %  Besides,  Horace  was  bitten  by  the 
modern  rabies :  he  was  as  restless  as  an  American. 
AVhen  at  Rome  was  he  not  always  sighing  for  his 
Sabine  farm,  and  when  at  the  farm  always  regret- 
ting Rome  ?     But  this  harmless,   innocent-eyed, 


THREE  NORMANDT  INNS.  73 

benevolent-browed  old  man,  with  his  passive 
brains  tied  up  in  a  foulard,  o'  morning-s,  and  his 
bourgeois  feet  adorned  with  carpet  slippers,  what 
g-rief  in  the  past  had  bitten  his  poor  soul  and  left 
its  mark  still  sore  ? 

"  It  isn't  monsieur — it  is  madame  who  has  made 
the  i^ast  dark,"  was  Renard's  comment,  when  we 
discussed  our  landlord's  probable  acquaintance 
wdth  regret — or  remorse. 

AVhatever  secret  of  the  past  may  have  hovered 
over  the  Fouchet  household,  the  evil  bird  had  not 
made  its  nest  in  madame's  breast,  that  was  clear ; 
her  smooth,  white  brow  was  the  sign  of  a  rose-leaf 
conscience  ;  that  dark  curtain  of'  hair,  looped  ma- 
donna-wise over  each  ear,  framed  a  face  as  unruffled 
as  her  conscience. 

She  was  entirely  at  peace  with  her  world — and 
with  heaven  as  well,  that  was  certain.  Whatever 
her  sins,  the  confessional  had  j)urged  her.  Like 
others,  doubtless,  she  had  found  a  husband  and  the 
provinces  excellent  remedies  for  a  damaged  repu- 
tation. She  lived  now  in  the  very  odor  of  sanctity  ; 
the  cure  had  a  pipe  in  her  kitchen,  with  something 
more  sustaining,  on  certain  bright  afternoons.  Al- 
though she  was  daily  announcing  to  us  her  ap- 
proaching dissolution — "  I  die,  mesdames — I  die  of 
ennui  "■ — it  seemed  to  me  there  were  still  signs,  at 
times,  of  a  vigorous  resuscitation.  The  cure's  visits 
were  wont  to  produce  a  deeper  red  in  the  deep 
bloom  of  her  cheek  ;  the  mayor  and  his  wife,  who 
drank  their  Sunday  coffee  in  the  arbor,  broug"ht, 
as  did  Beatrix's  advent  to  Dante,  vita  nuova  to  this 
homesick  Parisian. 


74  THREE  NORMANDY  INNS. 

There  were  other  i^leasures  in  her  small  "world, 
also,  which  made  life  endurable.  Barg-ainiu":, 
when  one  teems  with  talent,  may  be  as  exciting- 
as  any  other  form  of  conquest.  'iNIadame's  days 
were  chiefly  j^assed  in  imitation  of  the  occupa- 
tion so  dear  to  an  earlier,  hardier  race,  that  race 
kings  have  knig-hted  for  their  powers  in  dealing- 
mightily  with  their  weaker  neighbors.  Madame, 
it  is  true,  was  only  a  woman,  and  Villerville  was 
somewhat  slimly  populated.  But  in  imitation  of 
her  remote  feudal  lords,  she  also  fell  upon  the 
passing  stranger,  demanding  tribute.  When  the 
stranger  did  not  pass,  she  kept  her  arm  in  jDrac- 
tice,  so  to  speak,  by  extracting  the  last  sou  in  a 
transaction  from  a  neighbor,  or  by  indulging  in  a 
drama  in  which  the  comedy  of  insult  was  matched 
by  the  tragedy  of  contempt. 

One  of  these  mortal  combats  it  was  my  privilege 
to  witness.  The  war  arose  on  our  announcement 
to  Mere  Mouchard,  the  lady  of  the  inn  by  the  sea, 
of  our  decision  to  move  next  door.  To  lis  Mere 
Mouchard  jjresented  the  unruflied  plumage  of  a 
dove ;  her  voice  also  was  as  the  voice  of  the  same, 
mellowed  by  sucking.  Ten  minutes  later  the  toAvn 
was  assembled  to  lend  its  assistance  at  the  en- 
counter between  our  two  landladies.  Each  stood 
on  their  respective  doorsteps  with  arms  akimbo 
and  head  thrust  forward,  as  geese  protrude  head 
and  tongue  in  moments  of  combat.  And  it  was 
thus,  the  mere  hissed,that  her  boarders  were  stolen 
from  her — under  her  very  nose — while  her  back  was 
turned,  with  no  more  thought  of  honesty  or  shame 
than  a (?).     The  word  was  never  uttered.    The 


THREE  NORMANDY  INNS.  75 

mere's  insult  was  drowned  in  a  storm  of  voices ; 
for  there  came  a  loud  protest  from  the  group  of 
neighbors.  Madame  Fouchet,  meanwhile,  was  sus- 
taining her  own  role  with  great  dignity.  Her  at- 
titude of  self-control  could  only  have  been  learned 
in  a  school  where  insult  was  an  habitual  weapon. 
She  smiled,  an  infuriating,  exasperating,  success- 
ful smile.  She  showed  a  set  of  defiant  Avhite  teeth, 
and  to  her  proud  white  throat  she  gave  a  boast- 
ful curve.  Was  it  her  fault  if  ces  dames  knew 
what  comfort  and  cleanliness  were  ?  if  they  pre- 
ferred "des  chambres  garnies  avec  gout,  vraiiiient  ar- 
tistiques" — to  rooms  fit  only  for  peasants'?  Ces 
dames  had  just  come  from  Paris  :  doubtless,  they 
were  not  yet  accustomed  to  provincial  customs — 
aux  moeursprovinciales.  Then  there  were  exchanged 
certain  melodious  acerbities,  which  proved  that 
these  ladies  had  entered  the  lists  on  previous  oc- 
casions, and  that  each  was  well  practised  in  the 
other's  methods  of  warfare.  Opportunely,  Renard 
appeared  on  the  scene  ;  his  announcement  that  we 
proposed  still  to  continue  taking  our  repasts  with 
the  mere,  was  as  oil  on  the  sea  of  trouble.  A  rec- 
onciliation was  immediately  effected,  and  the 
street  as  immediately  lost  all  interest  in  the  play, 
the  audience  melting  away  as  speedily  as  did  the 
wrath  of  the  disputants. 

"  Le  hon  Dleu  soit  loue,"  cried  Madame  Fouchet, 
puffing,  as  she  mounted  the  stairs  a  few  moments 
later — "  God  be  praised  " —  she  hadn't  come  here 
to  the  provinces  to  learn  her  rights — to  be  taught 
her  alj)habet.  Mere  Mouchard,  forsooth,  who 
wanted  a  week's  board  as  indemnity  for  her  loss 


76  THREE  NORMANDY  INNS. 

of  us  !  A  week's  board — for  lodgings  scorned  by 
peasants ! 

"  All,  these  Normans !  what  a  people,  what  a 
peoi)le  !  They  would  peel  the  skin  off  your  back ! 
They  would  sell  their  children  !  They  would  cheat 
the  devil  himself !  " 

"  You,  madame,  I  presume,  are  from  Paris." 
Madame  smiled  as  she  answered,  a  thin  fine  smile, 
richly  seasoned  with  scorn.  "  Ah,  mesdames  !  All 
the  world  can't  boast  of  Paris  as  a  birthplace,  un- 
fortunately. I  also,  I  am  a  Norman,  inais  }e  ne 
m'en  ficlie  jms  !  Most  of  my  life,  liowever,  I've 
lived  in  Paris,  thank  God  !  "  She  lifted  her  head 
as  she  spoke,  and  swept  her  hands  about  her 
waist  to  adjust  the  broad  belt,  an  action  preg- 
nant with  suggestions.  For  it  was  thus  conveyed 
to  us,  delicately,  that  such  a  figure  as  hers  was  not 
bred  on  rustic  diet  ;  also,  that  the  Parisian  glaze 
had  not  failed  of  its  effect  on  the  coarser  provin- 
cial clay. 

Meanwhile,  below  in  the  garden,  her  husband 
was  meekly  tying  up  his  rose-trees. 

Neither  of  the  landladies'  husbands  had  figured 
in  the  street-battle.  It  had  been  a  purely  Amazo- 
nian encounter,  bloodless  but  bitter.  Both  the 
husbands  of  these  two  belligerent  landladies  ap- 
peared singularly  well  trained.  Mouchard,  indeed, 
occuiiied  a  comparatively  humble  sphere  in  his 
wife's  menage.  He  was  perpetually  to  be  seen  in 
the  court-yard,  at  the  back  of  the  house,  washing 
dogs,  or  dishes,  in  a  costume  in  which  the  greatest 
economy  of  cloth  compatible  with  decency  had 
been  triumphantly  solved.    His  wife  ran  the  house, 


THREE  NORMANDY  INNS.  77 

and  he  ran  the  errands,  an  arrangement  which, 
apparently,  worked  greatly  to  the  satisfaction  of 
both.  But  Mouchard  was  not  the  first  or  the 
second  French  husband  who,  on  the  threshold  of 
his  connubial  experience,  had  doubtless  had  his 
role  in  life  appointed  to  him,  filling  the  same  with 
patient  acquiescence  to  the  very  last  of  the  lines. 

There  is  something  very  touching  in  the  subjec- 
tion of  French  husbands.  In  point  of  meekness 
they  may  well  serve,  I  think,  as  models  to  their 
kind.  It  is  a  meekness,  however,  which  does  not 
hint  of  humiliation;  for,  after  all,  what  humilia- 
tion can  there  be  in  being  thoroughly  understood  ? 
The  Frenchwoman,  by  virtue  of  centuries  of  ac- 
tivity, in  the  world  and  in  the  field,  has  become 
an  expert  in  the  art  of  knowing  her  man ;  she 
has  not  worked  by  his  side,  under  the  burn  of  the 
noon  sun,  or  in  the  cimmerian  darkness  of  the 
shop-rear,  counting  the  pennies,  for  nothing.  In 
exchanging  her  illusions  for  the  bald  front  of  fact, 
man  himself  has  had  to  pay  the  penalty  of  this 
mixed  gain.  She  tests  him  by  i^urely  professional 
standards,  as  man  tests  man,  or  as  he  has  tested 
her,  when  in  the  ante-matrimonial  days  he  weighed 
her  dot  in  the  scale  of  his  need.  The  French- 
woman and  Shakespeare  are  entirely  of  one  mind : 
they  perceive  the  great  truth  of  unity  in  the 
scheme  of  things : 

"  Woman's  test  is  man's  taste." 

This  is  the  first  among  the  great  truths  in  the 
feminine  grammar  of  assent.  French  masculine 
taste,  as  its  criterion,  has  established  the  excellent 


78  THREE  NORMANDY  INNS.      ■ 

doctrine  of  utilitarianism.  With  quick  apprehen- 
sion the  Frenchwoman  has  mastered  this  fact ; 
she  has  cleverly  taken  a  lesson  from  ophidian 
habits — she  can  change  her  skin,  quickly  shedding- 
the  sentimentalist,  when  it  comes  to  serious  action, 
to  don  the  duller  raiment  of  utility.  She  has  ac- 
cepted her  world,  in  other  words,  as  she  finds  it, 
wdth  a  philosopher's  shrug".  But  the  philosopher 
is  lined  with  the  logician;  for  this  system  of  life 
has  accomplished  the  miracle  of  making  its  women 
lo*gical ;  they  have  grasped  the  subtleties  of  in- 
ductive reasoning.  Marriage,  for  example,  they 
know  is  entered  into  solely  on  the  principle  of 
mutual  benefit ;  it  is  therefore  a  partnership,  hon  : 
now,  in  partnerships  sentiments  and  the  emotions 
are  out  of  place,  they  only  serve  to  dim  the  eye  ; 
those  commodities,  therefore,  are  best  conveyed 
to  other  markets  than  the  matrimonial  one  ;  for  in 
purely  commercial  transactions  one  has  need  of 
X)erfect  clearness  of  vision,  if  only  to  keep  one  well 
practised  in  that  simple  game  called  looking  out 
for  one's  own  interest.  In  Frenchwomen,  the  ra- 
tiocinationist  is  extraordinarily  develoijed;  her 
logic  laenetrates  to  the  core  of  things. 

Hence  it  is  that  Mouchard  washes  dishes. 

Monsieur  Jourdain,  in  Moliere's  comedy,  who 
expressed  such  surprise  at  finding  that  he  had 
been  talking  prose  for  forty  years  without  know- 
ing it,  was  no  more  amazed  than  would  Mere  Mou- 
chard have  been  had  you  announced  to  her  that  she 
was  a  logician ;  or  that  her  husband's  daily  occu- 
pations in  the  bright  little  court-yard  were  the 
result  of  a  system.     Yet  both  facts  were  triie. 


THREE  NORMANDY  INNS.  79 

In  that  process  we  now  know  as  tlie  survival  of 
the  fittest,  the  mere's  caijacity  had  snuffed  out  her 
weaker  spouse's  incompetency ;  she  had  taken  her 
place  at  the  helm,  because  she  belonged  there  by 
virtue  of  natural  fitness.  There  were  no  tender  il- 
lusions which  would  suffer,  in  seeing-  the  husband 
allotted  to  her,  probably  by  her  parents  and  the  dot 
system,  relegated  to  the  ignominy  of  passing  his 
days  washing  dishes — dishes  which  she  cooked 
and  served — dishes,  it  should  be  added,  which  she 
was  entirely  conscious  were  cooked  by  the  hand  of 
genius,  and  which  she  garnished  with  a  sauce  and 
served  with  a  smile,  such  as  only  issue  from  French 
kitchens. 


CHAPTER  Vm. 

THE  QUAETIER  LATIN  ON  THE  BEACH. 

^-|—:— '^-'^-^V^-V^  The  beach,  oue  morning-,  we 
found  suddenly  peopled  with 
artists.  It  was  a  little  city  of 
tents.  Beneath  strij^ed  awn- 
ings and  white  umbrellas  a 
multitude  of  flat-capi^ed  heads  sat  immovably  still 
on  their  three-legged  stools,  or  darted  hither  and 
thither.  Paris  was  evidently  beginning  to  empty 
its  studios  ;  the  Normandy  beaches  now  furnished 
the  better  model. 

One  morning  we  were  in  luck.  A  certain  blonde 
beard  had  counted  early  in  the  day  on  having  the 
beach  to  himself.  He  had  posed  his  model  in  the 
open  daylight,  that  he  might  paint  her  in  the 
suiL  He  had  placed  her,  seated  on  an  edge  of  sea- 
wall :  for  a  background  there  was  the  curve  of  the 
yellow  sands  and  the  flat  breadth  of  the  sea,  with 
the  droop  of  the  sky  meeting  the  sea  miles  away. 
The  girl  was  a  slim,  fair  shape,  with  long,  thin  legs 
and  delicately  moulded  arms :  she  was  dressed 
in  the  fillet  and  chiton  of  Greece.  During  her 
long  poses  she  was  as  immovable  as  an  antique 
marble ;  her  natural  grace  and  i^rettiness  were 
transfigured  into  positive  beauty  by  the  flowing 
lines  and  the  pink  draperies  of  her  Attic  costume. 


THREE  NORMANDY  INNS.  81 

Seated  thus,  she  was  a  breathing-  embodiment  of 
the  best  Greek  period.  When  the  rests  came,  her 
jump  from  the  wall  landed  her  square  on  her 
feet  and  at  the  latter  end  of  the  nineteenth  cen- 
tury. Once  free,  she  bounded  from  her  perch  on 
the  hig-h  sea-wall.  In  an  instant  she  had  tucked 
her  tinted  draperies  within  the  slender  girdle  ; 
her  sandalled  feet  must  be  untrammelled,  she 
was  about  to  take  her  run  on  the  beach.  Soon 
she  was  i^elting,  irreverently,  her  painter  with  a 
shower  of  loose  pebbles.  Next  she  had  challenged 
him  to  a  race;  when  she  reached  the  goal,  her 
thin,  bare  arms  were  uplifted  as  she  clapped  and 
shouted  for  glee ;  the  Quartier  Latin  in  her  blood 
was  having-  its  moment  of  hig'h  revelry  in  the 
morning-  sun. 

This  little  grisette,  running  about  free  and  un- 
shackled in  her  loose  draperies,  quite  unabashed 
in  her  state  of  semi-nudity — g-ay,  reckless,  wooing 
pleasure  on  the  wing,  surely  she  might  have  posed 
as  the  embodied  archetype  of  France  itself.  So  has 
this  pag-an  among  modern  nations  borrowed  some- 
thing of  the  antique  spirit  of  wantonness.  Along- 
with  its  theft  of  the  Attic  charm  and  grace,  it  has 
captured,  also,  something  of  its  sublime  indiffer- 
ence ;  in  the  very  teeth  of  the  dull  modern  world, 
France  has  laughed  opinion  to  scorn. 

At  noon  the  tents  were  all  deserted.  It  was  at 
this  hour  that  the  inn  garden  was  full.  The  gay- 
ety  and  laughter  overflowed  the  walls.  Everyone 
talked  at  once  ;  the  orders  were  like  a  rattle  of  ar- 
tillery— painting  for  hours  in  the  open  air  gives  a 
fine  edge  to  appetite,  and  jjatience  is  never  the 


82  THREE  NORMANDY  INNS. 

true  twin  of  hunger.  Everything-  but  the  potage 
was  certain  to  be  on  time. 

Colinette,  released  from  her  Greek  draperies, 
with  her  Parisian  bodice  had  recovered  the  blague 
of  the  studios. 

"  Sacre  nom  de — on  reste  done  claquemure  ainsi 
toute  la  matinee !  And  all  for  an  omelette  —  a 
puny,  good-for-nothing  omelette.  And  you  — 
you've  lost  your  tongue,  it  seems  ? "  And  a  shrill 
voice  pierced  the  air  as  Colinette  gave  her  painter 
the  hint  of  her  i^rodding  elbow.  With  the  appear- 
ance of  the  omelette  the  reign  of  good  humor 
would  return.  Everything  then  went  as  merrily 
as  that  marriage-bell  which,  apparently,  is  the 
only  one  absent  in  Bohemia's  gay  chimes. 

These  arbors  had  obviously  been  built  out  of 
pure  charity:  they  appeared  to  have  been  con- 
structed on  the  principle  that  since  man,  painting 
man,  is  often  forced  to  live  alone,  from  economic 
necessity,  it  is  therefore  only  the  commonest  char- 
ity to  provide  him  with  the  proper  surroundings 
for  eating  a  deux.  The  little  tables  beneath  the 
kiosks  were  strictly  tete-a-tete  tables;  even  the 
chairs,  like  the  visitors,  appeared  to  come  only  in 
couples. 

The  Frenchman  has  been  reproached  with  the 
sin  of  ingratitude ;  has  been  convicted,  indeed,  as 
possessed  of  more  of  that  pride  that  comes  late — 
the  day  after  the  gift  of  bounty  has  been  given  — 
than  some  other  of  his  fellow-mortals.  Yet  here 
were  a  company  of  Frenchmen  —  and  French- 
women —  proving  in  no  ordinary  fashion  their 
equipment  in  this  rare  virtue.      It  was  early  in 


THREE  NORMANDY  INNS.  83 

Maj^;  up  yonder,  where  the  Seine  flows  beneath 
the  Parisian  bridges,  the  pulse  of  the  gay  Paris 
world  was  beating  in  time  to  the  spring  in  the  air. 
Yet  these  artists  had  deserted  the  asphalt  of  the 
boulevards  for  the  cobbles  of  a  village  street,  the 
delights  of  the  cafe  chantant  had  been  exchanged 
for  the  miracle  of  the  moon  rising  over  the  sea, 
and  for  the  song  of  the  thrush  in  the  bush. 

The  Frenchman,  more  easily  and  with  simi)ler 
art  than  any  of  his  modern  brethren,  can  change 
the  prose  of  our  dull,  i^ractical  life  into  poetry ;  he 
can  turn  lyrical  at  a  moment's  notice.  He  pos- 
sesses the  power  of  transmuting  the  commonplace 
into  the  idyllic,  by  merely  clapping  on  his  cap 
and  turning  his  back  on  the  haunts  of  men.  He 
has  retained  a  singular — an  almost  ideal  sensitive- 
ness, of  mental  cuticle — such  acuteness  of  sensa- 
tion, that  a  journey  to  a  field  will  oftentimes  yield 
him  all  the  flavor  of  a  long  voyage,  and  a  sudden 
introduction  to  a  forest,  the  rapture  that  commonly 
comes  only  with  some  unwonted  aspect  of  nature. 
Perhaps  it  is  because  of  this  natural  poet  indwell- 
ing in  a  Frenchman,  that  makes  him  content  to 
remain  so  much  at  home.  Surely  the  extraordi- 
nary is  the  costly  necessity  for  barren  minds ;  the 
richly-endowed  can  see  the  beauty  that  lies  the 
other  side  of  their  own  door-step. 


CHAPTEK  IX. 

A   NORMAN  HOUSEHOLD. 

""  :  There  were  two  paths  in  the 
•*  viUag-e  that  were  well 
worn.  One  was  that 
which  led  the  villag-e  up 
into  the  fields.  The  other 
was  the  one  that  led  the 
tillers  of  the  soil  down 
into  the  village,  to  the 
door-step  of  the  justice  of 
the  peace. 

A  good  Norman  is  no 
Norman  who  has  not  a  lawsuit  on  hand. 

Anything-  will  serve  as  a  pretext  for  a  quarrel. 
No  sum  of  money  is  so  small  as  not  to  warrant 
a  breaking  of  the  closest  blood-ties,  if  therebj' 
one's  rights  may  be  secured.  Those  beautiful 
stripes  of  rj'e,  barley,  corn,  and  wheat  up  yonder 
in  the  fields,  that  melt  into  one  another  like  sea- 
tones — down  here  on  the  benches  before  the  juge 
de  paix — what  quarrels,  what  hatreds,  what  evil 
passions  these  few  acres  of  land  have  brought 
their  owners,  facing  each  other  here  like  so  many 
demons,  readj^  to  spring  at  the  others'  throats! 
Brothers  on  these  benches  forget  they  are  brothers, 
and  sisters  that  thev  have  suckled  the  same  mother. 


THREE  NORMANDY  INNS.  85 

Two  more  yards  of  the  soil  that  should  have  been 
Fillette's  instead  of  Jeanne's,  and  the  grave  will 
enclose  both  before  the  clenched  fist  of  either  is 
relaxed,  and  the  last  sous  in  the  stocking  will 
be  spent  before  the  war  between  their  respective 
lawyers  will  end. 

Many  and  man}-  were  the  tales  told  ns  of  the 
domestic  tragedies,  born  of  wills  mal-administered, 
of  the  passions  of  hate,  ambition,  and  despair  kept 
at  a  white  heat  because  half  the  village  o-wTied,  up 
in  the  fields,  what  the  other  half  coveted.  Many, 
also,  and  fierce  were  the  heated  faces  we  looked  in 
upon  at  the  justice's  door, in  the  very  throes  of  the 
great  moment  of  facing  justice, and  their  adversary. 

Our  own  way,  by  iireference,  took  us  up  into 
the  fields.  Here,  in  the  broad  open,  the  farms  lay 
scattered  like  fortifications  over,  a  plain.  Doubt- 
less, in  the  earlier  warlike  days  they  had  served  as 
such. 

Once  out  of  the  narrow  Yillerville  streets,  and 
the  pastoral  was  in  full  swing. 

The  sea  along  this  coast  was  not  in  the  least  in- 
sistant ;  it  allowed  the  shore  to  play  its  full  gamut 
of  power.  There  were  no  tortured  shapes  of  trees 
or  plants,  or  barren  wastes,  to  attest  the  fierce  waj^s 
of  the  sea  with  the  land.  Reminders  of  the  sea 
and  of  the  life  that  is  lived  in  ships  were  conspic- 
uous features  everywhere,  in  the  j^astoral  scenes 
that  began  as  soon  as  the  town  ended.  Women 
carrying  sails  and  nets  toiled  through  the  green 
aisles  of  the  roads  and  lanes.  Fishing-tackle  hung 
in  company  with  tattered  jerseys  outside  of  huts 
hidden  in  grasses  and  honeysuckle.     The  shep- 


86  THREE  NORMANDY  INNS. 

herdesses,  as  they  followed  the  sheep  inland  into 
the  heart  of  the  pasture  land,  were  busy  netting- 
the  coarse  cages  that  trap  the  finny  tribe.  Long- 
limbed,  vigorous-faced,  these  shepherdesses  were 
Biblical  figures.  In  their  coarse  homespun,  with 
only  a  skirt  and  a  shirt,  with  their  bare  legs, 
half-open  bosoms,  and  the  fine  poise  of  their  blond 
heads,  theirs  was  a  beaut}^  that  commanded  the 
homage  accorded  to  a  rude  virginity. 

In  some  of  the  fields,  in  one  of  our  many  walks, 
the  grass  was  being  cut.  In  these  fields  the  groups 
of  men  and  women  were  thickest.  The  long 
scythes  were  swung  mightily  by  both  ;  the  voices, 
a  gay  treble  of  human  speech,  rose  above  the  me- 
tallic swish  of  the  sharj)  blades  cutting  into  the 
succulent  grasses. 

The  fat  pasture  lands  rose  and  sank  in  undula- 
tions as  rounded  as  the  nascent  breasts  of  a  young 
Greek  maiden.  A  medley  of  color  played  its 
charming  variations  over  fields,  over  acres  of  pop- 
pies, over  lolains  of  red  clover,  over  the  backs  of 
spotted  cattle,  mixing,  mingling,  blending  a  thou- 
sand twists  and  turns  into  one  exquisite,  harmoni- 
ous whole.  There  was  no  discordant  note,  not  one 
harsh  contrast ;  even  the  hay-ricks  seemed  to  have 
been  modelled  rather  than  pitched  into  shape; 
their  sloping  sides  and  finely  pointed  apexes  giv- 
ing them  the  dignity  of  structural  intent. 

AVhy  should  not  a  peasant,  in  blouse  and  sabots, 
with  a  grinning  idiot  face,  have  put  the  picture 
out  ?  But  he  did  not.  He  was  walking,  or  rather 
waddling,  toward  us,  between  two  green  walls  that 
rose  to  be  arched  by   elms   that   hid  the  blue  of 


THREE  NORMAJSDY  INJVS.  87 

the  sky.  This  lane  was  the  kind  of  lane  one  sees 
only  in  Devonshire  and  in  Normandy.  There  are 
lanes  and  lanes,  as,  to  quote  our  friend  the  cob- 
bler, there  are  cures  and  cures.  But  only  in  these 
above-named  countries  can  one  count  on  walk- 
ing straight  into  the  heart  of  an  emerald,  if  one 
turns  from  the  high-road  into  a  lane.  The  trees, 
in  these  Devonshire  and  Normandy  by-paths,  have 
ways  of  their  own  of  vaulting  into  space ;  the 
hedges  are  thicker,  sweeter,  more  vocal  with  in- 
sect and  song  notes  than  elsewhere  ;  the  roadway 
itself  is  softer  to  the  foot,  and  narrower — only  two 
are  exjDected  to  walk  therein. 

It  was  through  such  a  lane  as  this  that  the 
coarse,  animal  shai^e  of  a  peasant  was  walking 
toward  us.  His  legs  and  body  were  horribly 
twisted ;  the  dangling  arms  and  crooked  limbs  ap- 
peared as  if  caricaturing  the  gnarled  and  tortured 
boughs  and  trunks  of  the  apple-trees.  The  peas- 
ant's blouse  was  filthy :  his  sabots  were  reeking 
with  dirty  straw :  his  feet  and  ankles,  bare,  were 
blacker  than  the  earth  over  which  he  was  pain- 
fully crawling;  and  on  his  face  there  was  the 
vacuous,  sensuous  deformity  of  the  smile  idiocy 
wears.  Again  I  ask,  why  did  he  not  disfigure  this 
fair  scene,  and  put  out  something  of  the  beauty 
of  the  day  ?  Is  it  because  the  French  peasant 
seems  now  to  be  an  inseparable  adjunct  of  the 
Frenchman's  landscape  ?  That  even  deformity 
has  been  so  handled  by  the  realists  as  to  make  ua 
see  beauty  in  ugliness  ?  Or  is  it  that,  as  moderns, 
we  are  all  bitten  by  the  rabies  of  the  picturesque ; 
that  all  things  serve  and  are  acceptable  so  long  as 


88  THREE  NORMANDY  INNS.  . 

we  have  our  necessary  note  of  contrast  ?  Certain 
it  is  that  it  appears  to  be  the  peasant's  blouse  that 
perpetuates  the  Salon,  and  perhaps — who  knows  ? 
— when  over-emig-ration  makes  our  own  American 
farmer  too  poor  to  wear  a  boiled  shirt  when  he 
ploug-hs,  we  also  may  develop  a  school  of  land- 
scape, with  fig-ures. 

Meanwhile  the  walk  and  the  talk  had  made 
Charm  thirsty.  "  Why  should  we  not  go,"  she 
asked,  "  across  the  next  field,  into  that  farm-house 
yonder,  and  beg"  for  a  g-lass  of  milk  ?  " 

The  farm-house  might  have  been  waiting  for  us, 
it  was  so  still.  Even  the  grasses  along  its  sloping 
roof  nodded,  as  if  in  welcome.  The  house,  as  we 
approached  it,  together  with  its  out-buildings, 
assumed  a  more  imposing  aspect  than  it  had  from 
the  road.  Its  long,  low  facade,  broken  here  and 
there  by  a  miniature  window  or  a  narrow  doorway, 
appeared  to  stretch  out  into  interminable  length 
beneath  the  towering  beeches  and  the  snarl  of  the 
peach-tree  boughs. 

The  stillness  was  ominous — it  was  so  profound. 

The  only  human  in  sight  was  a  man  in  a  distant 
field;  he  was  raking  the  ploughed  ground.  He  was 
too  far  £tway  to  hear  the  sound  of  our  voices. 

"  Perha]3s  the  entire  establishment  is  in  the 
fields,"  said  Charm,  as  we  neared  the  house. 

Just  then  a  succession  of  blows  fell  on  our  ear. 

"  Someone  is  beating  a  mattress  within,  we  shall 
have  our  glass  after  all." 

We  knocked.     But  no  one  answered  our  knock. 

The  beating  continued  ;  the  sound  of  the  blows 
fell  as  regularly  as  if  machine-impelled.     Then  a 


THREE  NORMANDY  INNS.  89 

cry  rose  up ;  it  was  the  cry  of  a  young,  strong  voice, 
and  it  was  followed  by  a  low  wail  of  ang-uisli. 

The  door  stood  half-open,  and  this  is  what  we 
saw:  A  man — tall,  strong,  powerful,  with  a  face 
jjurple  with  passion — bending"  over  the  crouching 
form  of  a  girl,  whose  slender  body  was  quivering, 
shrinking,  and  writhing  as  the  man's  hand,  armed 
with  a  short  stick,  fell,  smiting  her  defenceless 
back  and  limbs. 

Her  wail  went  on  as  each  blow  fell. 

In  a  corner,  crouched  in  a  heap,  sitting  on  her 
heels,  was  a  woman.  She  was  clapi^ing  her  hands. 
Her  eyes  were  starting  from  her  head  ;  she  clapped 
as  the  blows  came,  and  above  the  girl's  wail  her 
strong,  exultant  voice  arose — calling  out : 

"  Tm-la  !    Tue-la  !  " 

It  was  the  voice  of  a  triumphant  fury. 

The  backs  of  all  these  people  were  turned  upon 
us ;  they  had  not  seen,  much  less  heard,  our  en- 
trance. 

Someone  else  had  seen  us,  however.  A  man  with 
a  rake  over  his  shoulder  rushed  in  through  the 
open  door ;  it  was  the  peasant  we  had  seen  in  the 
field.  He  seized  Charm  by  the  arm,  and  then  my 
own  hand  was  grasped  as  in  a  grip  of  iron.  Be- 
fore we  had  time  for  resistance  he  had  pushed  us 
out  before  him  into  the  entry,  behind  the  outer 
door.  This  latter  he  slammed.  He  put  his  broad 
back  against  it ;  then  he  dropped  his  rake  and  be- 
gan to  mop  his  face,  violently,  with  a  filthy  hand- 
kerchief he  i^lucked  from  beneath  his  blouse. 

"  Qiie  chance  !  Nam  de  Dieu,  que  chance  !  Je  v'- 
avions  vue,  I  saw  you  just  in  time — just  in  time — " 


90  THREE  NORMANDY  INNS: 

"  But,  I  must  go  in — I  Avisli  to  go  back ! '  But 
Charm  might  as  well  have  attempted  to  move  a 
pillar  of  stone. 

The  peasant's  coarse,  good-humored  face  broke 
into  a  broad  laugh. 

"  Pardon,  mam'selle  — fu  hougeons  jya^.  Xot' 
maitre  e'  €71  colere  ;  c'  son  jour — faut  x>cis  Virriter — aiC- 
Jou'hui." 

Meantime,  during  the  noise  of  our  forced  exit 
and  the  ensuing  dialogue,  the  scene  Avithiu  had 
evidently  changed  in  character,  for  the  blows  had 
ceased.  Steps  could  be  heard  crossing  and  re- 
crossing  the  wooden  floor.  A  creaking  sound  suc- 
ceeded to  the  beating — it  was  the  creaking  and 
groaning  of  a  wooden  staircase  bending  beneath 
the  weight  of  a  human  figure.  In  an  upper  cham- 
ber there  came  the  sound  of  a  quiet,  subdued  sob- 
bing now.  The}'  were  the  sobs  of  the  girl.  She 
at  least  had  been  released. 

A  face,  cruel,  j)inched,  hardened,  with  flaming 
agate  eyes  and  an  insolent  smile,  stood  looking 
out  at  us  through  the  dulled,  dusty  window-pane. 
It  was  the  fury. 

Meanwhile  the  peasant  was  still  defending  his 
post.  A  moment  later  the  tall  frame  of  the  farmer 
suddenly  filled  the  open  doorway.  The  peasant 
well-nigh  fell  into  his  master's  arms.  The  farm- 
er's face  was  still  terrible  to  look  upon,  but  the 
purple  stain  of  jiassion  was  now  turned  to  red. 
There  was  a  mocking  insolence  in  his  tone  as  he 
addi'essed  us,  that  matched  Avith  the  woman's  un- 
concealed glee. 

"  Will  you  not  come  in,  mesdames  ?    Will  you 


THREE  NORMAXDY  INNS.  9] 

not  rest  a  while  after  your  long  walk  ?  "  On  the 
man's  hard  face  there  was  still  the  shadow  of  a 
sinister  cruelty  as  he  waved  his  hand  toward  the 
room  within. 

The  peasant's  good-humored,  loutish  smile,  and 
his  stupid,  cow-like  eyes,  by  contrast,  were  the 
e^'es  and  smile  of  a  benevolent  deity. 

The  smile  told  us  we  were  right,  as  we  slunk 
away  toward  the  oj^en  road.  The  head  kept  nod- 
ding approval  as  we  vanished  presently  beneath 
the  shade  of  the  protecting  trees. 

The  fields,  as  we  swept  rapidly  past  them,  were 
as  bathed  in  peace  as  when  we  had  left  them ; 
there  was  even  a  more  voluptuous  content  abroad : 
for  the  twilight  was  wrapping  about  the  land- 
scape its  poppied  dusk  of  gloom  and  shadow. 
Above,  the  birds  were  swirling  in  sweeping  circles, 
raining  down  the  ecstasy  of  their  night-song ;  still 
above,  far  beyond  them,  across  a  zenith  pure, 
transparent,  ineffably  pink,  illumined  wisps  of 
clouds  were  trailing  their  scarf-like  shapes.  It 
was  a  scene  of  beatific  peace.  Across  the  fields 
came  the  sound  of  a  distant  bell.  It  was  the  An- 
gelus.  The  ploughmen  stopped  to  doff  their  hats, 
the  women  to  bend  their  heads  in  prayer. 

And  in  our  ears,  louder  than  the  vibrations  of 
the  hamlet  bell,  louder  than  the  bird-notes  and 
the  tumult  of  the  voluptuous  insect  whirr,  there 
rang  the  thud,  thud  of  cruel  blows  falling  on  quiv- 
ering human  flesh. 

The  curtain  that  hid  the  life  of  the  peasant- 
farmer  had  indeed  been  lifted. 


CHAPTEK  X. 

ERNESTINE. 

'Ah,  mesdames,  what  will 
you  have  ?  The  French 
peasant  is  like  that.  When 
he  is  in  a  rage  nothing, 
stops  him — he  beats  any- 
thing-, every  thing- :  what- 
ever his  hand  encounters 
must  suffer  when  he  is  an- 
gry ;  his  wife,  his  child, 
his  servant,  his  horse,  they  are  all  alike  to  him 
when  he  sees  red." 

Monsieur  Fouchet  was  tying  up  his  rose-trees  ; 
we  were  watching  him  from  our  seat  on  the  green 
bench.  Here  in  the  garden,  beneath  the  blue  vault, 
the  roses  were  drooping  from  very  heaviness  of 
g-lory ;  they  g-ave  forth  a  scent  that  made  the  head 
swim.  It  was  a  healthy,  virile  intoxication,  how- 
ever, the  salt  in  the  air  steadying  one's  nerves. 

Nature,  not  being-  mortal  and  cursed  with  a  con- 
science, had  risen  that  morning  in  a  mood  for  ca- 
rousal ;  at  this  hour  of  noon  she  had  reached  the 
point  of  ecstatic  stupor.  No  state  of  trance  was 
ever  so  exquisite.  The  air  was  swooning,  but  how 
delicate  its  g-asps,  as  if  it  fell  away  into  calm  ! 
How  adorably  blue  the  sky  in  its  debauch  of  sun- 


THREE  NORMANDY  INNS.  93 

lit  ether !  The  sea,  too,  although  it  reeled  slig-ht- 
ly,  unsteadily  rising-  only  to  fall  away,  what  a  radi- 
ance of  color  it  maintained !  Here  in  the  g-arden 
the  drowsy  air  would  lift  a  flower  petal,  as  some 
dreamer  sunk  in  hasheesh  slumber  mig-ht  touch  a 
loved  hand,  only  to  let  it  slip  away  in  nerveless 
impotence.  Never  had  the  charm  of  this  Nor- 
mandy sea-coast  been  as  compelling- ;  never  had 
the  divine  softness  of  this  air,  this  harmonious 
marriag-e  of  earth-scents  and  sea-smells  seemed  as 
perfect ;  never  befoi-e  had  the  delicacy  of  the  foli- 
age and  color-gradations  of  the  sky  as  triumph- 
antly proved  that  nowhere  else,  save  in  France, 
can  nature  be  at  once  sensuous  and  poetic. 

We  looked  for  something-  other  than  pure  enjoy- 
ment from  this  g-olden  moment :  we  hoped  its 
beauty  would  help  us  to  soften  our  landlord.  This 
was  the  moment  we  had  chosen  to  excite  his  sym- 
pathies, also  to  g-ain  counsel  from  him  concerning- 
the  tragedy  we  had  witnessed  the  day  before.  He 
listened  to  our  tale  with  evident  interest,  but  there 
was  a  disappointing  coolness  in  his  eye.  As  the 
narrative  proceeded,  the  brutality  of  the  situation 
failed  to  sting  him  to  even  a  mild  form  of  indig- 
nation. He  went  on  tjang  his  rose-trees,  his 
ardor  expending  itself  in  choice  snippings  of  the 
stray  stalks  and  rebellious  tendrils. 

"  This  Guichon,"  he  said,  after  a  brief  moment, 
in  the  tone  that  goes  with  the  i^ursuance  of  an 
occupation  that  has  become  a  passion.  "  This 
Guichon — I  know  him.  He  is  a  hard  man,  but  no 
harder  than  many  others,  and  he  has  had  his  losses, 
which  don't  always  soften  a  man.     '  Qui  ferre  a 


94  THREE  NORMANDY  INNS. 

guerre  a,'  Moliere  says,  and  Guichon  has  had  many 
lawsuits,  losing  them  all.  He  has  been  twice  mar- 
ried ;  that  was  his  daughter  by  his  first  wife  he 
w'as  touching  up  like  that.  He  married  only  the 
other  day  Madame  Tier,  a  rich  woman,  a  neighbor, 
their  lands  join.  It  was  a  great  match  for  him, 
and  she,  the  wife,  and  his  daughter  don't  hit  it 
ofi",  it  appears.  There  was  some  talk  of  a  marriage 
for  the  girl  lately ;  a  good  match  presented  itself, 
but  the  girl  will  have  none  of  it ;  perhaps  that  ac- 
counts for  the  beating." 

A  rose,  overblown  with  its  fulness  of  splendor, 
dropped  in  a  shower  at  Fouchet's  feet  just  then. 

"  Tiens,  elle  est  finie,  ceUe-la,"  he  cried,  with  an 
accent  of  regret,  and  he  stooped  over  the  fallen 
petals  as  if  they  had  been  the  remains  of  a  friend. 
Then  he  sighed  as  he  swept  the  mass  into  his 
broad  palm. 

"  Come,  let  us  leave  him  to  the  funeral  of  his 
roses ;  he  hasn't  the  sensibilities  of  an  insect ;  " 
and  Charm  grasped  my  arm  to  lead  me  over  the 
turf,  across  the  gravel  paths,  toward  the  tea-house. 

This  tottering  structure  had  become  one  of  our 
favorite  retreats ;  in  the  poetic  mise-en-scene  of  the 
garden  it  played  the  part  of  Ruin.  It  was  ab- 
surdly, ridiculously  out  of  repair ;  its  gaping  beams 
and  the  sunken,  dejected  floor  could  only  be  due 
to  intentional  neglect.  Fouchet  evidentlj^  had 
grasped  the  secrets  of  the  laws  of  contrast ;  the 
deflected  angle  of  the  tumbling  roof  made  the 
clean-cut  garden  beds  doubly  true.  Nature  had 
had  comi^assion  on  the  aged  little  building,  how- 
ever ;  the  clustering,  fragrant  vines,  in  their  hatred 


THREE  NORMANDY  INNS.  95 

of  nudity,  had  invested  the  prose  of  a  wreck  with 
the  poetry  of  drapery.  The  tip-tilted  settee  be- 
neath the  odorous  roof  became,  in  time,  our  chosen 
seat ;  from  that  perch  we  could  overlook  the  garden- 
walls,  the  beach,  the  curve  of  the  shore,  the  grasses 
and  hollyhocks  in  our  neighbor's  garden,  the  latter 
startlingly  distinct, against  the  great  arch  of  the 
sky. 

It  was  here  Renard  found  us  an  hour  later.  To 
him,  likewise,  did  Charm  narrate  our  extraordinary 
experience  of  yesterday,  with  much  adjunct  of  fiery 
comment,  embellishment  of  gesture,  and  imitative 
pose. 

"Ye  gods,  what  a  scene  to  paint!  You  were  in 
luck — in  luck  ;  why  wasn't  I  there  % "  was  Renard's 
tribute  to  human  pity. 

"  Oh,  you  are  all  alike,  all — nothing  moves  you 
— you  haven't  common  human  sympathies — you 
haven't  the  rudiments  of  a  heart !  You  are  terri- 
ble— all  of  you — terrible  !  "  A  moment  after  she 
had  left  us,  as  if  the  narrowness  of  the  little  house 
stifled  her.  With  long,  swinging  steps  she  passed 
out,  to  air  her  indignation,  apparently,  beneath  the 
wall  of  the  esjoaliers. 

"  Splendid  creature,  isn't  she  ?  "  commented  Re- 
nard,  following  the  long  lines  of  the  girl's  flut- 
tering muslin  gown,  as  he  plucked  at  his  mus- 
tache. "  She  should  always  wear  white  and  gold 
— what  is  that  stufl'  ? — and  be  lit  up  like  that  with 
a  kind  of  goddess-like  anger.  She  is  wrong,  how- 
ever," he  went  on,  a  moment  later ;  "  those  of  us 
who  live  here  aren't  really  barbarians,  only  we  get 
used  to  things.     It's  the  peasants  themselves  that 


96  THREE  NORMANDY  INNS. 

force  us ;  they  wouldn't  stand  interference.  A 
peasant  is  a  kind  of  king-  on  his  own  domain ;  he 
does  anything  he  likes,  short  of  murder,  and  he 
doesn't  always  stop  at  that." 

"But  surely  the  Government — at  least  their 
Church,  ought  to  teach  them " 

"  Oh,  their  Church !  they  laugh  at  their  cures — 
till  they  come  to  die.  He's  a  heathen,  that's  what 
the  French  peasant  is — there's  lots  of  the  middle 
ages  abroad  up  there  in  the  country.  Along  here, 
in  the  coast  villag-es,  the  nineteenth  century  has 
crept  in  a  bit,  humanizing  them,  but  the  fonds  is 
always  the  same ;  they're  by  nature  avaricious, 
sordid,  cruel ;  they'll  do  anything  for  money ;  there 
isn't  anything-  sacred  for  them  except  their 
pocket." 

A  few  days  later,  in  oiir  friend  the  cobbler  we 
found  a  more  sympathetic  listener.  "  Dame !  I 
also  used  to  beat  my  wife,"  he  said,  contempla- 
tively, as  he  scratched  his  herculean  head,  "but 
that  was  when  I  was  a  Christian,  when  I  went  to 
confession ;  for  the  confessional  was  made  for  that, 
c'est  pour  laver  h  linge  sale  des  consciences,  ca  "  (in- 
terjecting- his  epigram).  "  But  now — now  that  I  am 
a  free-thinker,  I  have  ceased  all  that ;  I  don't  beat 
her,"  pointing  to  his  old  wife,  "  and  neither  do  I 
drink  or  swear." 

"  It's  true,  he's  g-ood — he  is,  now,"  the  old  wife 
nodded,  with  her  slit  of  a  smile ;  "  but,"  she  added, 
quickly,  as  if  even  in  her  husband's  religious  past 
there  had  been  some  days  of  glory,  "he  was  al- 
ways just — even  then — when  he  beat  me." 

"  C'est  tres  fenune,  qci — hein,  mademoiselle  ?  "    And 


THREE  NORMANBT  INNS.  97 

the  cobbler  cocked  liis  head  in  critical  pose,  with 
a  philosopher's  smile. 

The  result  of  the  interview,  however,  although 
not  entirely  satisfactory,  was  illuminating-,  besides 
this  light  which  had  been  thrown  on  the  cobbler's 
reformation.  For  the  cobbler  was  a  cousin,  dis- 
tant in  point  of  kinship,  but  still  a  cousin,  of  the 
brutal  farmer  and  father.  He  knew  all  the  points 
of  the  situation,  the  chief  of  which  was,  as  Fouchet 
had  hinted,  that  the  girl  had  refused  to  wed  the 
hon  2yarti,  who  was  a  connection  of  the  step-mother. 
As  for  the  step-mother's  murderous  outcry,  "  Kill 
her !  kill  her !  "  the  cobbler  refused  to  take  a  dra- 
matic view  of  this  outburst. 

"  In  such  moments,  you  understand,  one  loses 
one's  head ;  brutality  always  intoxicates ;  she  was 
a  little  drunk,  you  see." 

When  we  proposed  our  modest  little  scheme, 
that  of  sending  for  the  girl  and  taking  her,  for  a 
time  at  least,  into  our  service,  merely  as  a  change 
of  scene,  the  cobbler  had  found  nothing  but  ad- 
miration for  the  project.  "  It  will  be  perfect, 
mesdames.  They,  the  parents,  will  ask  nothing 
better.  To  have  the  girl  out  at  service,  siwsiy,  and 
yet  not  disgracing  them  by  taking  a  place  with 
any  other  farmer  ;  yes,  they  will  like  that,  for  they 
are  rich,  you  see,  and  wealth  always  respects  it- 
self. Ah,  yes,  it's  perfect ;  I'll  arrange  all  that — 
all  the  details." 

Two  days  later  the  result  of  the  arrangement 
stood  before  us.  She  was  standing  with  her  arms 
crossed,  her  fingers  clasping  her  elbows — with  her 
very  best  peasant  manner.     She   was  neatly,  and, 


98  TUREE  NORMANDY  INNS. 

for  a  peasant,  almost  fashionably  attired  in  her 
holiday  dress — a  short,  black  skirt,  white  stock- 
ings, a  flowery  kerchief  crossed  over  her  broad 
bosom,  and  on  her  i^rett}'  hair  a  richly  tinted  blue 
foulard.  She  was  very  well  dressed  for  a  i^easant, 
and,  from  the  point  of  view  of  two  travellers,  of 
about  as  much  use  as  a  i^lough. 

"  It's  a  beautiful  scheme,  and  it's  as  dramatic  as 
the  fifth  act  of  a  play  ;  but  what  shall  we  ilo  with 
her  ?  ■ 

"  Oh,"  replied  Charm,  carelessly,  "  there  isn't 
anything  in  i^articular  for  her  to  do.  I  mean  to 
buy  her  a  lot  of  clothes,  like  those  she  has  on,  and 
she  can  walk  about  in  the  garden  or  in  the  fields." 

"  Ah,  I  see  ;  she's  to  be  a  kind  of  a  perambu- 
lating figure-i3iece " 

"  Yes,  that's  about  it.  I  dare  say  she  will  be 
very  useful  at  sunset,  in  a  dim  street  ;  so  few  peas- 
ants wear  anything  approaching  to  costume  now- 
ada\'S." 

Ernestine  herself,  however,  as  we  soon  discov- 
ered, had  an  entirely  different  conception  of  her 
vocation.  She  was  a  vigorous,  active  young 
woman,  with  the  sap  of  twenty  summers  in  her 
lusty  .young  veins.  Her  energies  soon  found  vent 
in  a  continuous  round  of  domestic  excitements. 
There  were  windows  and  floors  that  cried  aloud  to 
Heaven  to  be  scrubbed ;  there  were  holes  in  the 
sheets  to  make  mam'zelle's  h'ing  between  them 
une  Itoufe,  une  vraie  horde.  As  for  Madame  Fouchet's 
little  weekly  bill,  Dieu  de  Dieu,  it  was  filled  with 
such  extortions  as  to  make  the  very  angels  weep. 
Madame  and  Ernestine  did  valiant    battle  over 


THREE  NORMANDY  INNS.  99 

those  bills  thereafter.  Ernestine  was  possessed  of 
the  courage  of  a  true  martyr ;  she  could  suffer  and 
submit  to  the  scourge,  in  the  matter  of  personal 
persecution,  for  the  religion  of  her  own  convic- 
tions ;  but  in  the  service  of  her  rescuer,  she  could 
fight  with  the  fierceness  of  a  common  soldier. 

"  When  Norman  meets  Norman "  Charm  be- 
gan one  day,  the  sound  of  voices,  in  a  high  treble 
of  anger,  coming  in  to  us  through  the  windows. 

But  Ernestine  was  knocking  at  the  door,  with  a 
note  in  her  hand. 

"  An  answer  is  asked,  mesdames,"  she  said,  in  a 
voice  of  honey,  as  she  di'opped  her  low  courtesy. 

This  was  the  missive : 


ALONG    AN     OLD     POST-ROAD    TO 
HONFLEUR  AND  TROUVILLE. 


CHAPTEK  XI. 


TO  AN  OLD   MANOR. 


'Will  ces  dames  join  me  in  a 
marauding-  expedition  ?  Like 
the  iDoet  Villon,  I  am  about  to 
turn  marauder,  house-breaker, 
thief.  I  shall  hope  to  end  the 
excursion  by  one  act,  at  least, 
of  hig-hway  robbery.  I  shall 
lose  courage  without  the  enliv- 
ening presence  of  ces  dames. 
We  will  start  when  the  day  is 
at  its  best,  we  will  return  when 
the  moon  smiles.  In  case  of 
finding"  none  to  rob,  the  coach 
of  the  desperadoes  will  be  gar- 
risoned with  i^rovisions ;  Henri  will  accomjjany  us 
as  counsellor,  purveyor,  and  bearer  of  arms  and 
costumes.  The  carriage  for  ces  dames  will  stop  the 
way  at  the  hour  of  eleven. 

"  I  have  the  honor  to  sign  myself  their  humble 
servant  and  co-conspirator. 

"John  Eenaed." 


"  This,  in  plain  English,"  was  Charm's  laconic 
translation  of  this  note,  "  means  that  he  wishes  us 
to  be  ready  at  eleven  for  the  excursion  to  P , 


104:  THREE  NORMANDY  INNS. 

to  spend  the  day,  you  may  remember,  at  that  old 
manoir.  He  wants  to  paint  in  a  background,  he 
said  yesterday,  Avhile  wc  stroll  about  and  look  at 
the  old  place.     AVhat  shall  I  wear  %  " 

In  an  hour  we  were  on  the  road. 

A  jaunty  yellow  cart,  laden  with  a  girl  on  the 
front  seat ;  with  a  man,  tawny  of  mustache,  broad 
of  shoulder,  and  dark  of  eye,  with  face  shining-  to 
match  the  spring-  in  the  air  and  that  fair  face  be- 
side him ;  laden  also  with  another  lad}^  on  the 
back  seat,  beside  whom,  uprig-ht  and  ^tiff,  with 
folded  arms,  sat  Henri,  costumer,  valet,  cook,  and 
gi-oom.  It  was  in  the  latter  capacity  that  Henri 
was  now  posing.  The  role  of  groom  was  uj^permost 
in  his  orderly  mind,  although  at  intervals,  when 
his  foot  chanced  to  touch  a  huge  luncheon-basket 
with  which  the  cart  was  also  laden,  there  were  be- 
traying signs  of  anxiety  ;  it  was  then  that  the  chef 
crept  back  to  life.  This  spring  in  the  air  was  all 
very  well,  but  how  would  it  affect  the  sauces? 
This  great  question  was  written  on  Henri's  brow 
in  a  network  of  anxious  wrinkles. 

"  Henri,"  I  remarked,  as  we  w^ere  wheeling  down 
the  roadway, "  I  am  quite  certain  you  have  put  up 
enough  luncheon  for  a  regiment." 

"  Madame  has  said  it,  for  a  regiment ;  Monsieur 
Eenard,  when  he  works,  eats  with  the  hunger  of  a 
wolf." 

"  Henri,  did  you  get  in  all  the  rags  1 "  This 
came  from  Eenard  on  the  front  seat,  as  he  plied 
his  steed  with  the  whip. 

"  The  costume  of  Monsieur  le  Marquis,  and  also 
of   Madame  la  Marquise  de  Pompadour,  are  be 


THREE  NORMANDY  INNS.  105 

neatli  my  feet  in  the  valise,  Monsieur  Kenard.  I 
haye  the  sword  between  my  leg's,"  replied  Henri, 
the  costiimer  coming-  to  the  surface  long-  enough 
to  readjust  the  sword. 

"  Capital  fellow,  Henri,  never  forg-ets  anything-," 
said  Renard,  in  English. 

"  Couldn't  we  offer  a  libation  or  something-,  on 
such  a  morning- " 

"  On  such  a  morning-,"  interrupted  the  painter, 
"  one  should  be  seated  next  to  a  charming-  young- 
lady  who  has  the  g-enius  to  wear  Nile  g-reen  and 
white ;  even  a  painter  with  an  Honorable  Mention 
behind  him  and  fame  still  ahead,  in  spite  of  the 
Mention,  is  satisfied.  You  know  a  Greek  deity 
was  nothing  to  a  painter,  modern,  and  of  the 
French  school,  in  point  of  fastidiousness." 

"  Nonsense !  it's  the  American  woman  who  is 
fastidious,  when  it  comes  to  clothes." 

Meanwhile,  there  was  one  of  the  party  who  was 
looking  at  the  road ;  that  also  was  arraj'ed  in  Nile 
green  and  white;  the  tall  trees  also  held  umbrel- 
las above  us,  but  these  coverings  were  woven  of 
leaves  and  sky.  This  bit  of  roadway  appeared  to 
have  slipped  down  from  the  upper  country,  and  to 
have  carried  much  of  the  upper  country  with  it. 
It  was  highway  posing  as  jiure  rustic.  It  had 
brought  all  its  pastoral  i^araphernalia  along.  Noth- 
ing had  been  forgotten :  neither  the  hawthorn 
and  the  osier  hedges,  nor  the  tree-trunks,  suddenly 
grown  modest  at  sight  of  the  sea,  burying  their 
nudity  in  nests  of  vines,  nor  the  trick  which  elms 
and  beeches  have,  of  growing  arches  in  the  sky. 
Timbered    farm-houses  were  here,  also  thatched 


106  THREE  NORMANDY  INNS. 

huts,  to  make  the  next  villa-g-ate  gain  in  stateli- 
ness ;  apple  orchards  were  dotted  about  with  such 
a  knowing-  air  of  wearing  the  long  line  of  the  At- 
lantic girdled  about  their  gnarled  trunks,  that  one 
could  not  believe  pure  accident  had  carried  them 
to  the  edge  of  the  sea.  There  were  several  miles 
of  this  driving  along  beneath  these  green  aisles. 
Through  the  screen  of  the  hedges  and  the  crowd- 
ed tree-trunks,  picture  succeeded  picture :  bits  of 
the  sea  were  caught  between  slits  of  cliff;  farm- 
houses, huts,  and  villas  lay  smothered  in  blossoms; 
above  were  heights  whereon  poiilars  seemed  to 
shiver  in  the  sun,  as  they  Avrapped  about  them  their 
shroud-like  foliage  ;  meadows  slipped  away  from 
the  heights,  plunging  seaward,  as  if  wearying  for 
the  ocean  ;  and  through  the  whole  this  line  of 
green  roadway  threaded  its  path  with  sinuous 
grace,  serpentining,  coiling,  braiding  in  land  and 
sea  in  one  harmonious,  inextricable  blending  of 
incomparable  beauty.  One  could  quite  compre- 
hend, after  even  a  short  acquaintance  with  this 
road,  that  two  gentlemen  of  Paris,  as  difficult  to 
X^lease  as  Daubigny  and  Isabey,  should  have  seen 
points  of  excellence  in  it. 

There  are  all  sorts  of  ways  of  being  a  jjainter. 
Perhaps  as  good  as  any,  if  one  cares  at  all  about  a 
trifling  matter  like  beauty,  is  to  know  a  good 
thing  when  one  sees  it.  That  poet  of  the  brush, 
Daubigny,  not  only  was  gifted  with  this  very  un- 
usual talent  in  a  painter,  but  a  good  thing  could 
actually  be  entrusted  in  his  hands  after  its  dis- 
covery. And  herein,  it  appears  to  me,  lies  all  the 
difference  between  good  and  bad  painting ;   not 


THREE  NORMANDY  INNS.  107 

only  is  an  artist — any  artist — to  be  judg-ed  by  what 
he  sees,  but  also  by  what  he  does  with  a  fact  after 
he's  acquired  it — whether  he  turns  it  into  poetry 
or  prose. 

I  might  incautiously  have  sprung  these  views 
on  the  artist  on  the  front  seat,  had  he  not  wisely 
forestalled  mj^  outburst  by  one  of  his  own. 

"  By  the  way,"  he  broke  in ;  "  by  the  way,  I'm 
not  doing"  my  duty  as  cicerone.  There's  a  church 
near  here — we're  coming  to  it  in  a  moment — famous 
— eleventh  or  twelfth  century,  romanesque  style 
— yes — that's  right,  although  I'm  somewhat  shaky 
when  it  comes  to  architecture — and  an  old  manoir, 
museum  now,  with  lots  of  old  furniture  in  it — in 
the  manoir,  I  mean." 

"  There's  the  church  now.     Oh,  let  us  stop  !  " 

In  point  of  fact  there  were  two  churches  be- 
fore us.  There  was  one  of  ivy  :  nave,  roof,  aisles, 
walls,  and  conic-shaped  top,  as  j^erfectly  defined 
in  gi'een  as  if  the  beautiful  mantle  had  been  cut 
and  fitted  to  the  hidden  stone  structure.  Every 
few  moments  the  mantle  would  be  lifted  by  the 
light  breeze,  as  might  a  priest's  vestment ;  it 
would  move  and  waver,  as  if  the  building  were  a 
human  frame,  changing  its  posture  to  ease  its 
long  standing.  Between  this  church  of  stone 
and  this  church  of  vines  there  were  signs  of  the 
fight  that  had  gone  on  for  ages  between  them. 
The  stones  were  obviously  fighting  decay,  fight- 
ing ruin,  fighting  annihilation ;  the  vines  were  also 
struggling,  but  both  time  and  the  sun  were  on 
their  side.  The  stone  edifice  was  now,  it  is  true, 
as  Renard  told  us,  protected  by  the  Government 


108  THREE  NORMANDY  INNS. 

— it  was  classed  as  a  "monument  liistorique "-- 
but  the  church  of  gi-eens  was  protected  by  the 
g-od  of  nature,  and  seemed  to  laugh  aloud,  as  if 
with  conscious  gleeful  strength.  This  gay,  tri- 
umphant laugh  was  reflected,  as  if  to  emphasize 
its  mockery  of  man's  work,  in  the  tranquil  waters 
of  a  little  pond,  lily-leaved,  garlanded  in  bushes, 
that  lay  hidden  beyond  the  roadway.  Through 
the  interstices  of  the  vines  one  solitary  window 
from  the  tower,  like  a  sombre  eye,  looked  down 
into  the  pond ;  it  saw  there,  reflected  as  in  a  mir- 
ror, the  old,  the  eternal  picture  of  a  dead  ruin 
clasped  by  the  arms  of  living  beauty. 

This  Criqueboeuf  church  presents  the  ideal  pic- 
turesque accessories.  It  stands  at  the  corner  of 
two  meeting  roadways.  It  is  set  in  an  ideal  jDas- 
toral  frame — a  frame  of  sleeping  fields,  of  waving 
tree-tops,  of  an  enchanting,  indescribable  snarl  of 
bushes,  vines,  and  wild  flowers.  In  the  adjoining 
fields,  beneath  the  tree-boughs,  ran  tlie  long,  low 
line  of  the  ancient  manoir — now  turned  into  a 
museum. 

AVe  glanced  for  a  few  brief  moments  at  the  col- 
lection of  antiquities  assembled  beneath  the  old 
roof — at  the  Henry  II.  chairs,  at  the  Pompadour- 
wreathed  cabinets,  at  the  long  rows  of  panels  on 
which  are  presented  the  whole  history  of  France — 
the  latter  an  amazing  record  of  the  industry  of  a 
certain  Dr.  Le  Goupils. 

"  Criqueboeuf  doesn't  exactly  hide  its  light  un- 
der a  bushel,  you  know,  although  it  doesn't  crown 
a  hill.  No  end  of  jjeople  know  it ;  it  sits  for  its 
portrait,  I  should  say  at  least  twice  a  week  regu- 


THREE  NORMANDY  INNS.  109 

larly,  on  an  average,  during"  the  season.  English 
water-colorists  go  mad  over  it — they  cross  over  on 
purpose  to  '  do '  it,  and  they  do  it  extremely  badly, 
as  a  rule." 

This  was  Renard's  last  comment  of  a  biographi- 
cal and  critical  nature,  concerning  the  "  historical 
monument,"  as  we  reseated  ourselves  to  pursue 
our  way  to  P . 

"  AVhy  don't  you  show  them  how  it  can  be 
done  ? " 

"  Would,"  coolly  returned  Renard,  "  if  it  were 
worth  while,  but  it  isn't  in  my  line.  Henri,  did 
you  bring  any  ice  ?  " 

Henri,  I  had  noticed,  when  we  had  reseated  our- 
selves in  the  cart,  had  greeted  us  with  an  air  of 
silent  sadness;  he  clearly  had  not  approved  of 
ruins  that  interfered  with  the  business  of  the 
day. 

"  Old,  monsieur,  I  did  bring  some  ice,  but  as 
monsieur  can  imagine  to  himself — a  two  hours' 
sun " 

"  Nonsense,  this  sun  wouldn't  melt  a  pat  of  but- 
ter ;  the  ice  is  all  right,  and  so  is  the  wine." 

Then  he  continued  in  English  :  "  Now,  ladies,  as 
I  should  begin  if  I  were  a  politician,  or  an  auc- 
tioneer ;  now,  ladies,  the  time  for  confession  has 
arrived ;  I  can  no  longer  conceal  from  you  my  bur- 
glarious scheme.     In  the  next  turn  that  we  shall 

make  to  the  right,  the  park  of  the  P manoir 

will  disclose  itself.  But,  between  us  and  that 
Park,  there  is  a  gate.  That  gate  is  locked.  Now, 
gates,  from  the  time  of  the  Garden  of  Eden,  I  take 
it,  have  been  an  invention  of — of — the  other  fellow, 


110  THREE  NORMANDY  INNS. 

to  keep  people  out.  I  know  a  way — but  it's  not 
the  way  you  can  follow.  Henri  and  I  will  break 
down  a  few  bars,  we'll  cross  a  few  fields  over  yon- 
der, and  will  present  ourselves,  with  all  the  virtues 
written  on  our  faces,  to  you  in  the  Park.  Mean- 
while you  must  enter,  as  queens  should — through 
the  g-reat  gates.  Behold,  there  is  a  cure  yonder,  a 
great  friend  of  mine.  You  will  step  along  the  road- 
way ;  you  will  ring  a  door-bell :  the  cure  will  ap- 
pear ;  you  will  ask  him  if  it  be  true  that  the  manoir 

of  P is  to  rent,  you  have  heard  that  he  has  the 

keys :  he  will  present  you  the  keys  ;  you  will  open 
the  big  gate  and  find  me." 

"  But — but,  Mr.  Renard,  I  really  don't  see  how 
that  scheme  will  work." 

"  Work !  It  will  work  to  a  charm.  You  will 
see.     Henri,  just  help  the  ladies,  will  j'ou  ?  " 

Henri,  with  decisive  gravity,  was  helping  the 
ladies  to  alight ;  in  another  instant  he  had  re- 
g'ained  his  seat,  and  he  and  Benard  were  flj'ing 
down  the  roadway,  out  of  sight. 

"  Beally— it's  the  coolest  i3roceeding,"  Charm 
began.  Then  we  looked  through  the  bars  of  the 
park  gate.  The  park  was  as  green  and  as  still  as 
a  convent  garden  ;  a  jjink  brick  mansion.  Math 
closed  window-blinds,  was  standing,  surrounded 
by  a  terrace  on  one  side,  and  by  glittering  par- 
terres on  the  other. 

"  TVTiere  did  he  say  the  old  cure  was  ?  "  asked 
Charm,  quite  briskly,  all  at  once.  Every  thing  had 
turned  out  precisely  as  Benard  had  predicted. 
Doubtless  he  had  also  counted  on  the  efficacy  of 
the  old  fable  of  the  Peri  at  the  Gate — one  look 


THREE  NORMANDY  INNS.  Ill 

had  been  sufficient  to  turn  us  into  aiTant  conspir- 
ators ;  to  gain  an  entrance  into  that  tranquil  para- 
dise any  ruse  would  serve. 

"Here's  a  church — he  said  nothing  about  a 
chvirch,  did  he  ?  " 

Across  the  ayenue,  above  the  branches  of  a  row 
of  tall  trees,  rose  the  ivied  facade  of  a  rude  hamlet 
church  ;  a  flight  of  steep  weedy  steps  led  up  to  its 
Norman  doorway.  The  door  was  wide  open; 
through  the  arched  aperture  came  the  sounds  of 
footfalls,  of  a  heavy,  vigorous  tread ;  Charm  ran 
lightly  up  a  few  of  the  lower  steps,  to  peer  into 
the  open  door. 

"  It's  the  cure  dusting  the  altar— shall  I  go  in  ?  " 
"  No,  we  had  best  ring — this  must  be  his  house." 
The  clatter  of  the  cure's  sabots  was  the  response 
that  answered  to  the  bell  we  pulled,  a  bell  attached 
to  a  diminutive  brick  house  lying  at  the  foot  of 
the  churchyard.  The  tinkling  of  the  cracked-voiced 
bell  had  hardly  ceased  when  the  door  opened. 

But  the  cure  had  already  taken  his  first  glance 
at  us  over  the  garden  hedges. 


CHAPTER  Xn. 

A  NORMAN  CURE. 

Mesdames  !  " 

The  priest's  massive 
frame  filled  the  narrow 
door  ;  the  tones  of  his  mel- 
low voice  seemed  also  sud- 
denly to  fill  the  air,  drown- 
ing all  other  sounds.  The 
<i;race  of  his  manner,  a 
grace  that  invested  the 
simple  act  of  his  uncov- 
ering and  the  holding  of 
his  calotte  in  hand,  with  an 
air  of  homage,  made  also  our  own  errand  the  more 
difiicult. 

I  had  already  begun  to  murmur  the  nature  of 
our  errand:  we  were  passing,  we  had  seen  the 
mauoir  opposite,  we  had  heard  it  was  to  rent,  also 
that  he.  Monsieur  le  Cure,  had  the  keys. 

Yes,  the  keys  were  here.  Then  the  velvet  in 
Monsieur  le  Cure's  eyes  turned  to  bronze,  as  they 
looked  out  at  us  from  beneath  the  fine  dome  of 
brow. 

"  I  have  the  keys  of  the  garden  only,  mesdames," 
he  replied,  Avitli  perfect  but  somewhat  distant 
courtesy ;  "  the  gardener,  down  the  road  yonder, 


THREE  NORMANDY  INNS.  113 

has  the  keys  of  the  house.  Do  you  really  wish  to 
rent  the  house  ?  " 

He  had  seen  through  our  ruse  with  quick  Nor- 
man penetration.  He  had  not,  from  the  first,  been 
in  the  least  deceived. 

It  became  the  more  difiicult  to  smooth  the  situ- 
ation into  shape.  We  had  thought  perhaps  to 
rent  a  villa,  we  w^ere  in  one  now  at  Yillerville.  If 
Monsieur  le  cure  would  let  us  look  at  the  garden. 
Monsieur  Eenard,  whom  perhaps  he  remem- 
bered  

"  M.  Eenard !  Oh  ho  !  Oh  ho  !  I  see  it  all  now," 
and  a  deep,  mellow  laugh  smote  the  air.  The  keen- 
ness in  the  fine  eyes  melted  into  mirth,  a  mirth 
that  laid  the  fine  head  back  on  the  broad  shoul- 
ders, that  the  laugh  that  shook  the  powerful  frame 
might  have  the  fuller  play. 

"Ah,  mes  en/ants,  I  see  it  all  now — it  is  that 
scoundrel  of  a  boy.  I'll  warrant  he's  there,  over 
yonder,  already.  He  was  here  yesterday,  he  was 
here  the  day  before,  and  he  is  afraid,  he  is  ashamed 
to  ask  again  for  the  kej^s.  But  come,  mes  en/ants, 
come,  let  us  go  in  search  of  him."  And  the  little 
door  was  closed  with  a  slam.  Do-s\ti  the  broad 
roadway  the  next  instant  fluttered  the  old  cure's 
soutane.  We  followed,  but  could  scarcely  keep 
pace  with  the  brisk,  vigorous  strides.  The  sabots 
ploughed  into  the  dust.  The  cane  stamped  along 
in  company  with  the  sabots,  all  three  in  a  fury  of 
impatience.  The  cure's  step  and  his  manner  might 
have  been  those  of  a  boy,  burning  with  haste  to 
discover  a  playmate  in  hiding.  All  the  keenness 
and  shrewdness  on  the  fine,  ruddy  face  had  melted 


11-i  THREE  NORMANDY  INNS. 

iuto  sweetness  ;  an  exuberance  of  mirth  seemed  to 
be  the  sap  that  fed  his  rich  nature.  It  was  easy  to 
see  he  had  passed  the  meridian  of  his  existence  in 
a  realm  of  high  spirits;  an  irrepressible  fountain 
within,  the  fountain  of  an  unquenchable  g-ood- 
liumor,  bathed  the  whole  man  with  the  hues  of 
health.  Eipe  red  lips  curved  generously  over 
superb  teeth  ;  the  cheeks  were  g'lowing,  as  were 
the  eyes,  the  crimson  below  them  deepening  to 
splendor  the  velvet  in  the  iris.  The  one  severe 
line  in  the  face,  the  thin,  straight  nose,  ended  in 
wdde  nostrils— in  the  quivering,  mobile  nostrils  of 
the  humorist.  The  swell  of  the  g-ourmand's  paimch 
beneath  the  soutane  was  i^roof  that  the  cure  was 
a  true  Norman — he  had  not  passed  a  lifetime  in 
these  fertile  gardens  forgetful  of  the  fact  that  the 
fine  art  of  good  living  is  the  one  indulg-ence  the 
Church  has  left  to  its  celibate  sons. 

Meanwhile,  our  guide  was  peering  with  quick, 
excited  gaze,  through  the  thick  foliage  of  the 
park :  his  fine  black  eyes  were  sweeping  the  par- 
terre and  terrace. 

"Ah-lil"his  rich  voice  cried  out,  mockingly; 
and  he  stopped,  suddenly,  to  plant  his  cane  in  the 
ground  with  mock  fierceness. 

"  Tiens,  Monsieur  le  Cure  !  "  cried  Eenard,  from 
behind  a  tree,  in  a  beautiful  voice.  It  was  a  voice 
that  matched  with  his  well-acted  surprise,  when 
he  appeared,  confronting  us,  on  the  other  side  of 
the  tree -trunk. 
'    The  cure  opened  his  arms. 

"  Ah,  man  enfant,  viens,  vkns  !  how  good  it  is  to 
see  thee  once  again !  " 


THREE  NORMANDY  INNS.  115 

They  were  in  eacli  other's  arms.  The  cure  was 
pressing  his  lips  to  Eenard's  cheek,  in  hearty 
French  fashion.  The  priest,  however,  adminis- 
tered his  reproof  before  he  released  him.  Ee- 
nard's broad  shoulders  received  a  series  of  pats, 
which  turned  to  blows,  dealt  by  the  cure's  hercu- 
lean hand. 

"Why  didn't  you  let  me  know  you  were  here, 
yesterday,  Hein  ?  Answer  me  that.  How  goes 
the  picture  ?  Is  it  set  up  yet  ?  You  see,  mes- 
dames,"  turning  with  a  reddened  cheek  and  gleam- 
ing eyes,  "  it  is  thus  I  punish  him — for  he  has  no 
heart,  no  sensibilities — he  only  understands  sev- 
erities !  And  he  defrauded  me  yesterday,  he 
cheated  me.  I  didn't  even  know  of  his  being  here 
till  he  had  gone.     And  the  picture,  where  is  it  ?  " 

It  \\'as  on  an  easel,  sunning  itself  beneath  the 
park  trees.  The  old  priest  clattered  along  the 
gravelly  walk,  to  take  a  look  at  it. 

"  Tiens — it  grows — the  figures  begin  to  move — 
they  are  almost  alive.  There  should  be  a  trifle 
more  shadow  under  the  chin,  what  do  you  think  ?  " 

Henri  raised  his  chin.  Henri  had  undergone 
the  process  of  transformation  in  our  absence.  He 
was  now  M.  le  Marquis  de  Pompadour — under  the 
heart-shaped  arch  of  the  great  trees,  he  was  stand- 
ing, resplendent  in  laces,  in  glistening  satins, 
leaning  on  a  rusty,  dull-jewelled  sword.  Eenard 
had  mounted  his  j^alette ;  he  was  dipping  already 
into  the  mounds  of  color  that  dotted  the  palette- 
board,  with  his  long  brushes.  On  the  canvas,  in 
colors  laid  on  by  the  touch  of  genius,  this  archway 
beneath   which   we    were   standing    reared   itself 


116  THREE  NORMANDY  INNS. 

aloft :  the  park  trees  were  as  tall  and  noble,  trans- 
fixed in  their  image  of  immutable  calm,  on  that 
strip  of  linen,  as  they  towered  now  above  us  ;  even 
the  yellow  cloud  of  the  laburnum  blossoms  made 
the  sunshine  of  the  shaded  grass,  as  it  did  here, 
where  else  no  spot  of  sun  might  enter,  so  dense 
was  the  night  of  shade.  The  life  of  another  day 
and  time  lived,  however,  beneath  that  shade ; 
Charm  and  the  cure,  as  they  drooped  over  the 
canvas,  confronted  a  graceful,  attenuated  courtier, 
sickening  in  a  languor  of  adoration,  and  a  spright- 
ly coquette,  whose  porcelain  beauty  was  as  fin- 
ished as  the  feathery  edges  of  her  lacy  sleeves. 

"  Tres — hien — tres—hien,"  said  the  cure,  nodding 
his  head  in  critical  commendation.  "  It  will  be  a 
little  masterpiece.  And  now,"  waving  his  hand 
toward  us,  "  what  do  you  propose  to  do  with  these 
ladies  while  you  are  painting  ?  " 

"  Oh,  they  can  wander  about,"  Renard  replied, 
abstractedly.  He  had  already  reseated  himself 
and  had  begun  to  ply  his  brushes;  he  now  saw 
only  Henri  and  the  hilt  of  the  sword  he  was  i)aint- 
ing  in. 

"  I  knew  it,  I  could  have  told  you — a  painter 
hasn't  the  manners  of  a  peasant  when  he's  paint- 
ing," cried  the  priest,  lifting  cane  and  hands  high 
in  air,  in  mock  horror.  "  But  all  the  better,  all  the 
better,  I  shall  have  you  all  to  myself.  Come,  come 
with  me.  You  can  see  the  house  later.  I'll  send 
for  the  gardener.  It's  too  fine  a  day  to  be  indoors. 
What  a  day,  hei)i  ?  Le  hoii  Dieu  sends  us  such  days 
now  and  then,  to  make  us  ache  for  paradise.  This 
way,  this  way — we'll  go  through  the  little  door — ■ 


THREE  NORMANDY  INNS.  117 

my  little  door ;  it  was  made  for  me,  j^ou  know, 
when  the  manoir  was  last  inhabited.  I  and  the 
children  were  too  im^Datient — we  suflfered  from 
that  malady — all  of  ns — we  never  could  wait  for 
the  great  gates  yonder  to  be  opened.  So  Mon- 
sieur de  H built  us  this  one." 

The  little  door  opened  directly  on  the  road,  and 
on  the  cure's  house.  There  was  a  tangle  of  under- 
brush barring  the  way ;  but  the  cure  pushed  the 
briars  apart  with  his  strong  hands,  beating  them 
doAvn  with  his  cane. 

When  the  door  opened,  we  passed  directly  be- 
yond the  roadway,  to  the  steep  ste^os  leading  to 
the  church.  The  cure,  before  mounting  the  ste^ss, 
swept  the  road,  upward  and  downward,  with  his 
keen  glance.  It  was  the  instinctive  action  of  the 
provincial,  scenting  the  chance  of  novelty.  Some 
distant  object,  in  the  meeting  of  two  distant  road- 
ways, arrested  the  darting  eyes  ;  this  time,  at  least, 
he  was  to  be  rewarded  for  his  prudence  in  looking 
about  him.  The  object  slowly  resolved  itself  into 
two  crutches  between  which  hung  the  limp  figure 
of  a  one-legged  man. 

"  Bonjour,  Monsieur  Je  cure."  The  crutches  came 
to  a  standstill :  the  cripple's  hand  went  up  to  doff 
a  ragged  worsted  cap. 

"  Good-day,  good-day,  my  friend  ;  how  goes  it  ? 
Not  quite  so  stiff,  liein — in  such  a  bath  of  sunlight 
as  this  ?     Good-day,  good-day." 

The  crutches  and  their  burden  passed  on,  kick- 
ing a  little  cloud  of  dust  about  the  lean  figure. 

"  Unpeu  casse,  Je  honhomvie,''  he  said,  as  he  nodded 
to  the  cripiale  in  a  tone  of   reflection,  as  if  the 


118  THREE  NORMANDY  INNS. 

breakage  that  had  befallen  his  humble  friend  were 
a  fresh  incident  in  his  experience.  "  Yes,  he's  a 
little  broken,  the  poor  old  man  ;  but  then,"  he  ad- 
ded, quickly  renewing-  his  tone  of  unquenchable 
hig-h  spirits — "one  doesn't  die  of  it.  No,  one 
doesn't  die,  fortunately.  Why,  we're  all  more  or 
less  cracked,  or  broken — np  here." 

He  shook  another  laugh  out,  as  he  preceded 
us  up  the  stone  steps.  Then  he  turned  to  stop 
for  a  moment  to  point  his  cane  toward  the  small 
house  with  whose  chimnej^s  we  were  now  on  a 
level. 

"  There,  mesdames,  there  is  the  jjroof  that  mere 
breaking-  doesn't  sig-iiify — in  this  matter  of  life 
and  death.  Tenez,  madame — "  and  with  a  charm- 
ing- g-esture  he  laid  his  richly-veined,  strong-  old 
hand  on  my  arm — a  hand  that  ended  in  beautiful 
fing-ers,  each  with  its  rim  of  moon-shaped  dirt ; 
"  tenez — figure  to  yourself,  madame,  that  I  myself 
have  been  here  twenty  years,  and  I  came  for  two  ! 
I  bought  out  the  honliomme  who  lived  over  yonder 
— I  bought  him  and  his  furniture  out.  I  said  to 
myself,  '  I'll  buy  it  for  eight  hundred,  and  I'll  sell 
it  for  four  hiindred,  in  a  year.'  "  Here  he  laid  his 
finger  on  his  nose — lengthwise,  the  Norman  in  him 
supplanting  the  priest  in  his  remembrance  of  a 
good  bargain.  "  And  now  it  is  twenty  years  since 
then.  Everything  creaks  and  cracks  over  there  :  all 
of  us  creak  and  crack.  You  should  hear  my  chairs, 
elles  se  cassent  les  reins — they  break  their  thighs 
continually.  Ah  !  there  goes  another,  I  cry  out,  as 
I  sit  doAvn  in  one  in  winter  and  hear  them  groan. 
Poor  old  things,  they  are  of  the  Empire,  no  won- 


THREE  NORMANDY  INNS.  119 

der  they  groati.  You  should  see  us,  when  our 
brethren  come  to  take  a  cup  of  soup  with  me. 
Such  a  collection  of  antiquities  as  we  are !  I 
catch  them,  my  brothers,  looking  about,  slyly 
peering"  into  the  secrets  of  my  little  menage. 
'From  his  ancestors,  doubtless,  these  old  chairs 
and  tables,'  say  these  good  freres,  under  their 
breath.  And  then  I  wink  slyly  at  the  chairs, 
and  they  never  let  on." 

Again  the  mellow  laugh  broke  forth.  He  stopped 
again  to  puff  and  blow  a  little,  from  his  toil  up 
the  steep  steps.  Then  all  at  once,  as  the  rough 
music  of  his  clicking  sabots  and  the  i^layful  taps 
of  his  cane  ceased,  the  laugh  on  his  mobile  lips 
melted  into  seriousness.  He  lifted  his  cane,  point- 
ing to  the  cemetery  just  above  us,  and  to  the  grave- 
stones looking  down  over  the  hillsides  between  a 
network  of  roses. 

"  We  are  old,  madame — we  are  old,  but,  alas !  we 
never  die  !  It  is  difficult  to  people,  that  cemetery. 
There  are  only  sixty  of  us  in  the  jjarish,  and  we 
die — we  die  hard.  For  example,  here  is  vaj  old 
servant"  —  and  he  covered  a  grave  with  a  sweep 
of  his  cane  —  for  we  were  leisurely  sauntering 
through  the  little  cemetery  now.  The  grave  to 
which  he  pointed  was  a  garden ;  heliotrope,  myo- 
sotis,  hare-bells  and  mignonette  had  made  of  the 
mound  a  bed  of  perfume — "  see  how  quietly  she 
lies — and  yet  what  a  restless  soul  the  flowers 
cover !  She,  too,  died  hard.  It  took  her  years  to 
make  up  her  mind  ;  finally  le  hon  Dieu  had  to  de- 
cide it  for  her,  when  she  was  eighty-four.  She 
complained  to  the  last — she  was  poor,  she  was  in 


120  THREE  NORMANDY  INNS. 

my  way,  she  was  blind.  '  Eh  hien,  fx  n'as  pas  besoin 
de  me  f aire  Jes  beaux  yeux,  foi'-l  used  to  say  to 
her.  Ah,  tlie  good  soul  that  she  was  ! "  and  the 
dark  eye  g-listened  with  moisture.  A  moment 
later  the  cure  was  blowing-  vigorously  the  note  of 
his  grief,  in  trumpet-tones,  through  the  organ  that 
only  a  Frenchman  can  render  an  effective  adjunct 
to  moments  of  emotion. 

"  You  see,  mes  enfants,  I  am  like  that — I  weep 
over  my  friends — when  they  are  gone  !  But  see," 
he  added  quickly,  recovering  himself —  "  see, 
over  yonder  there  is  my  predecessor's  grave.  He 
lies  well,  hein  ? — comfortable,  too — looking  his  old 
church  in  the  face  and  the  sun  on  his  old  bones 
all  the  blessed  day.  Soon,  in  a  few  years,  he  will 
have  company.  I,  too,  am  to  lie  there,  I  and  a 
friend."  The  humorous  smile  was  again  curving 
his  lips,  and  the  laughter-loving  nostrils  were  be- 
ginning to  quiver.  "  When  my  friend  and  I  lie 
there,  we  shall  be  a  little  crowded,  perhaps.  I 
said  to  him,  when  he  proposed  it,  proposed  to  lie 
there  with  us,  '  but  we  shall  be  crunching  each 
other's  bones ! '  '  No,'  he  replied, '  only  falling  into 
each  other's  arms ! '  So  it  was  settled.  He  comes 
over  from  Havre,  every  now  and  then,  to  talk  our 
tombstones  over;  we  drink  a  glass  of  wine  to- 
gether, and  take  a  pipe  and  talk  about  our  future 
■ — in  eternity !  Ah,  how  gay  we  are !  It  is  so  good 
to  be  friends  with  God !  " 

The  voice  deejDened  into  seriousness.  He  went 
on  in  a  quieter  key : 

"  But  why  am  I  always  preaching  and  talking 
about  death  and  eternity  to  two  such  ladies — two 


THREE  NORMANDY  INNS.  121 

such  children  ?  Ah — I  know,  I  am  really  old — I 
only  deceive  myself  into  pretending-  I'm  young. 
You  will  do  the  same,  both  of  you,  some  day. 
But  come  and  see  my  good  works.  You  know 
everyone  has  his  little  corner  of  conceit — I  have 
mine.  I  like  to  do  good,  and  then  to  boast  of  it. 
You  shall  see — you  shall  see." 

He  was  hurrying  us  along  the  narrow  paths 
now,  past  the  little  company  of  grave-stones, 
graves  that  were  bearing  their  barbaric  burdens 
of  mortuary  wreaths,  of  beaded  crosses,  and  the 
motley  assemblage,  common  to  all  French  grave- 
yards, of  hideous  shrines  encasing  tin  saints  and 
madonnas  in  plaster. 

Above  the  sunken  graves  and  the  tin  effigies  of 
the  martj'rs  behind  the  church,  arose  a  fair  and 
glittering-  marble  tomb.  It  was  strangely  out  of 
keeping-  with  the  meagre  and  paltry  surroundings 
of  the  peasant  grave-stones.  As  we  approached 
the  tomb  it  grew  in  imposingness.  It  was  a  circu- 
lar mortuary  chapel,  with  carved  pediment  and 
iron-wrought  gateway. 

"  It's  fine,  hein,  and  beautiful,  hein  ?  It  is  the 
Duke's !  "  The  cure,  it  was  easy  to  see,  considered 
the  chapel  in  the  light  of  a  personal  possession. 
He  stood  before  it,  bare-headed,  with  a  new  earn- 
estness on  his  mobile  face.  "  It  is  the  Duke's. 
Yes,  the  Duke's.  I  saved  his  soul,  blessed  be 
God !  and  he — he  rebuilds  my  cellars  for  me ! 
See " — and  he  pointed  to  the  fine  new  base  of 
stone,  freshly  cemented,  on  which  the  church 
rested—"  see,  I  save  his  soul,  and  he  preserves  my 
buildings  for  me.     It's  a  fair  deal,  isn't  it  ?     How 


122  THREE  NORMANDY  INNS. 

does  it  come  about,  that  lie  is  converted?  Ah, 
you  see,  althoug^h  I  am  a  man  without  science, 
without  knowledge,  devoid  of  pretensions  and 
learning-,  the  good  God  sometimes  makes  use  of 
such  humble  instruments  to  work  His  will.  It 
came  about  in  the  usual  way.  The  Duke  came 
here  carrying  his  religion  lightly,  as  one  may  say, 
not  thinking  of  his  soul.  I — I  dine  with  him. 
We  talk,  we  argue ;  he  does,  that  is — I  only  preach 
from  my  Bible.  And  behold !  one  day  he  is  con- 
verted. He  is  devout.  And  from  gratitude,  he 
repairs  my  crumbling  old  stones.  And  now  see 
how  solid,  how  strong  is  my  church  cellar !  " 

Again  the  fountain  of  his  irrepressible  merriment 
bubbled  forth.  For  all  the  gayety,  however,  the 
severe  line  deepened  as  one  grew  to  know  the  face 
better ;  the  line  in  profile  running  from  the  nose 
into  the  firm  upper  lip  and  into  the  still  more 
resolute  chin,  matched  the  impress  of  authority 
marked  on  the  noble  brow.  It  was  the  face  of  one 
who  might  have  infinite  charity  and  indulgence 
for  a  sin,  and  yet  would  make  no  compromise 
with  it. 

We  had  resumed  our  walk.  It  led  us  at  last  into 
the  interior  of  the  little  church.  The  gloom  and 
silence  within,  after  the  dazzling  brilliancy  of  the 
noon-day  sun  and  the  noisy  insect  hum,  invested 
the  narrow  nave  and  dim  altar  with  an  added 
charm.  The  old  priest  knelt  for  the  briefest  in- 
stant in  reverence  to  the  altar.  "Wlien  he  turned 
there  was  surjjrise  as  well  as  a  gentle  reproach  in 
the  changeable  eyes. 

"  And  you,  mesdames !     How  is  this  ?     You  are 


THREE  NORMANDY   INNS.  123 

not  Catliolics  ?  And  I  was  so  sure  of  it !  Quite 
sure  of  it,  you  were  so  sympathetic,  so  full  of  rev- 
erence. And  you,  my  child  " — turning-  to  Charm — 
"you  speak  our  tong"ue  so  well,  with  the  very 
accent  of  a  good  Catholic.  What !  you  are  Prot- 
estant ?  La !  La  !  What  do  I  hear  %  "  He  shook 
his  cane  over  the  backs  of  the  straw-bottomed 
chairs ;  the  sweet,  mellow  accents  of  his  voice 
melted  into  loving  protest — a  protest  in  which  the 
fervor  was  not  quenched  in  spite  of  the  merry  key 
in  which  it  was  pitched. 

"  Protestants  ?  Pouffe  !  pouffe !  What  is  that  % 
What  is  it  to  be  a  Protestant  1  Heretics,  heretics, 
that  is  what  you  are.  So  you  are  deux  affreuses 
Jieretiques  ?  Ah,  la !  la  !  Horrible  !  horrible  !  I 
must  cure  you  of  all  that.  I  must  cure  you ! " 
He  dropped  his  cane  in  the  enthusiasm  of  his  at- 
tack ;  it  fell  with  a  clanging  sound  on  the  stone 
pavement.  He  let  it  lie.  He  had  assumed,  un- 
consciously, the  orator's,  the  i^reacher's  attitude. 
He  crowded  past  the  chairs,  throwing  b'ack  his 
head  as  he  advanced,  striking  into  argumentative 
gesture : 

"  Tenez,  listen,  there  is  so  little  difference,  after 
all.  As  I  was  saying  to  M.  le  comte  de  Chermont 
the  other  day,  no  later  than  Thursday — he  has 
married  an  English  wife,  you  know — can't  under- 
stand that  either,  how  they  can  marry  English 
wives.  However,  that's  none  of  my  business — we 
have  nothing  to  do  with  marrying,  we  jiriests,  ex- 
cept as  a  sacrament  for  others.  I  said  to  M.  le 
comte,  who,  you  know,  shows  tendencies  toward 
anglicism — astonishing  the  influence  of  women — 1 


124  THREE  NORM  AN DT  INNS. 

said :  '  But,  my  dear  M.  le  comte,  why  clian.2fe  ? 
You  will  only  exchange  certainty  for  uncertainty, 
facts  for  doubts,  truth  for  lies.'  '  Yes,  yes,'  the 
comte  replied,  '  but  there  are  so  many  new  truths 
introduced  now  into  our  blessed  religion — the  in- 
fallibility of  the  pope — the — ' '  Ah,  mon  cher  comte 
— ne  m'en  2^arlez  pas.  If  that  is  all  that  stands  in 
your  way — faites  comme  le  ban  Dieu  !  Lid — il  fertile 
les  yeiix  et  tend  les  bras.  That  is  all  we  ask — we  his 
servants — to  have  you  close  3-our  eyes  and  open 
your  arms.'" 

The  good  cure  was  out  of  breath :  he  w^as  panting. 
After  a  moment,  in  a  deeper  tone,  he  went  on : 

"  You,  too,  my  children,  that  is  what  I  say  to 
you — you  need  only  to  open  your  arms  and  to 
close  your  eyes.     God  is  waiting  for  you." 

For  a  long  instant  there  was  a  great  stillness — 
a  silence  during  which  the  narrow  spaces  of  the 
dim  aisles  were  vibrating  with  the  echoes  of  the 
rich  voice. 

The  rustle  of  a  light  skirt  sweeping  the  stone 
flooring  broke  the  moment's  silence.  Charm  was 
crossing  the  aisles.  She  paused  before  a  little 
wooden  box,  nailed  to  the  wall.  There  came  sud- 
denly on  the  ear  the  sound  of  coin  rattling  down 
into  the  empty  box  ;  she  had  emptied  into  it  the 
contents  of  her  purse. 

"  For  your  poor,  monsieur  le  cure,"  she  smiled 
up,  a  little  tremulously,  into  the  burning,  glowing 
eyes.  The  priest  bent  over  the  fair  head,  laying 
his  hand,  as  if  in  benediction,  upon  it. 

"  My  poor  need  it  sadly,  my  child,  and  I  thank 
you  for  them.     God  will  bless  you." 


THREE  NORMANDY  INNS.  125 

It  was  a  touching-  little  scene,  and  I  preferred, 
for  one,  to  look  out  just  then  at  Henri's  figure  ad- 
vancing- tosvai'd  us,  up  the  stone  steps. 

AVhen  thf-  priest  s^Doke  again,  it  was  in  a  husky- 
tone,  the  gokl  in  his  voice  dusted  with  moisture  ; 
but  the  bantering  spirits  in  him  had  reappeared. 

"  What  a  pity,  that  you  must  burn  !  For  you 
must — dreadful  heretics  that  you  are!  And  this 
dear  child,  she  seems  to  belong  to  us — I  can  never 
sit  by,  now,  in  Paradise,  happy  and  secure,  and 
see  her  burn  !  "  The  laugh  that  followed  was  a 
mingled  caress  and  a  blessing.  Henri  came  in  for 
a  part  of  the  indulgence  of  the  good  cure's  smile 
as  he  came  up  the  steps. 

"  Ah,  Henri,  you  have  come  for  these  ladies  ?  " 

"  Old,  monsieur  le  cure,  luncheon  is  served." 

Our  friend  followed  us  to  the  topmost  step,  and 
to  the  very  edge  of  the  step.  He  stood  there, 
talking  down  to  us,  as  we  continued  to  press  him 
to  return  with  us. 

"  No,  my  children — no — no,  I  can't  join  you ; 
don't  urge  me ;  I  can't,  I  must  not.  I  must  say 
my  XDrayers  instead:  besides  the  children  come 
soon,  for  their  catechism.  No,  don't  beg  me,  I 
don't  need  to  be  importuned;  I  know  what  that 
dear  Eenard's  wine  is.  Au  revoir  et  a  hientot — and 
remember,"  and  here  he  lifted  his  arms — cane  and 
all,  high  in  the  air — "  all  you  need  do  is  to  close 
your  eyes  and  to  open  your  arms.  God  himself  is 
doing  the  same." 

High  up  he  stood,  with  uplifted  hands,  the 
smile  irradiating  a  face  that  glowed  with  a  saint's 
simplicity.     Behind  the  black  lines   of  his  robe, 


126  THREE  NORMANDY  INNS. 

the  suulig-ht  lay  streaming"  in  noon  ,q"lory :  it  au- 
reoled  liim  as  never  saint  was  aureolod  by  mortal 
brush.  A  moment  only  he  ling-ered  there,  to  raise 
his  cap  in  parting  salute.  Then  he  turned,  the 
trail  of  his  gown  sweeping  the  gravel  paths,  and 
presently  the  low  church  door  swallowed  him  up. 
Through  the  door,  as  we  crossed  the  road,  there 
came  out  to  us  the  click  of  sabots  striking  the 
rude  flagging ;  and  a  moment  after,  the  murmur- 
ing echo  of  a  deep,  rich  voice,  saying-  the  office  oi 
the  hour. 


CHAPTEE  XIII. 


HONTLEUE — NEW   AND   OLD. 


The   stillness   of  tlie    park   trees,   as  we 
passed  beneath   them,  was  like  the 
silence  that  comes  after  a  blessing". 
The  sun,  flooding-  the  land- 
^  scape   with    a    delug-e  of 

light,  lost  something-  of  its 
effulgence,  by  contrast  with 
the  fulness  of  the  priest's 
rich  nature.  This  fair  world 
of  lieauty  that  lay  the  other 
side  of  the  terrace  wall,  be- 
neath which  our  luncheon 
was  spread,  was  fair  and 
lovely  still — but  how  unim- 
portant the  landscape  seemed  compared  to  the 
varied  scenery  of  the  cure's  soul -lit  character! 
Of  all  kinds  of  nature,  human  nature  is  assuredly 
the  best ;  it  is  at  least  the  most  perdurably  in- 
teresting-. When  we  tire  of  it,  when  we  weary  of 
our  fellow-man  and  turn  the  blase  cheek  on  the 
fresh  pillow  of  mother-earth,  how  quickly  is  the 
pillow  deserted  once  the  mental  frame  is  rested 
or  renewed !  The  history  of  all  human  relations 
has  the  same  ending — we  all  of  us  only  fall  out  of 
love  with  man  to  fall  as  swiftly  in  again. 


128  THREE  NORMANDY  INNS. 

The  remainder  of  the  afternoon  passed  with 
the  rapidity  common  to  all  phases  of  enchant- 
ment. 

How  could  one  eat  seriously,  with  vulgar,  iilut- 
touous  hunger,  of  a  feast  spread  on  the  i^arapet  of 
a  terrace-wall?  The  white  foam  of  napkins,  the 
mosaic  of  the  patties,  the  white  breasts  of  chicken, 
the  salads  in  their  bath  of  dew — these  spoke  the 
lang-uag-e  of  a  lost  cause.  For  there  was  an  open- 
air  concert  going  on  in  full  swing,  and  the  per- 
formance was  one  that  made  the  act  of  eating  seem 
as  gross  as  the  munching  of  ap^ales  at  an  oratorio — 
the  music  being,  indeed,  of  a  highly  refined  order 
of  perfection.  One's  ears  needed  to  be  highly  at- 
tuned to  hear  the  pricking  of  the  locusts  in  the 
leaves ;  even  the  breeze  kept  uncommonly  still, 
that  the  brushing  of  the  humming-birds'  and  bees' 
wings  against  the  flower-petals  might  be  the  more 
distinctly  heard. 

I  never  knew  which  one  of  the  party  it  was  that 
decided  we  were  to  see  the  daj"  out  and  the  night 
in :  that  we  were  to  dine  at  the  Cheval  Blanc,  on 
the  Houfleur  quays,  instead  of  sedately  breaking 
bread  at  the  Mere  Mouchards.  Even  our  steed 
needed  very  little  urging  to  see  the  advantages  of 
such  a  scheme.  Henri  alone  wore  a  grim  air  of 
disapproval.  His  aspect  was  an  epitome  of  rigid 
protest.  As  he  took  his  seat  in  the  cart,  he  held 
the  sword  between  his  legs  with  the  air  of  one 
burning  with  a  pent-up  anguish  of  protest.  His 
eye  gloomed  on  the  day  ;  his  head  was  held  aloft, 
reared  on  a  column  of  bristling  vertebrae,  and  on 
kis  brow  was  written  the  sign  of  mutiny. 


THREE  NORMANDY  INNS.  129 

"  Henri — 3"ou  think  we  should  go  back ;  j^on  think 
going'  on  to  Honlieur  a  mistake  ?  " 

"  Madame  has  said  it "' — Henri  was  a  fatalist 
— in  his  speech,  at  least,  he  lived  up  to  his  creed. 
"  Hontleur  is  far — Monsieur  Kenard  has  not  the 
good  digestion — when  he  is  tired — he  suffers.  II 
passe  des  nuits  d'cmgoisse.  II  sovffre  des  fatigues  de 
Vestomac.  II  se  fatigue  avjourd'hui  !  "  This,  with 
an  air  of  stern  conviction,  was  accompanied  by  a 
glance  at  his  master  in  which  compassion  was  not 
the  most  ol^vious  note  to  be  read.  He  w^ent  on, 
remorselessly : 

"  And,  as  madame  knows,  the  work  but  begins 
for  me  when  we  are  at  home.  There  are  the  cos- 
tumes to  be  dusted  and  put  away,  the  paint- 
brushes to  clean,  the  dishes  and  lunch-basket  to  be 
attended  to.  As  madame  says,  monsieur  is  some- 
times lacking  in  consideration.  Mais,  que  voulez- 
voiis  ?   le  genie,  c.  est  fait  coinme  fa." 

Madame  had  not  expressed  the  feeblest  echo  of 
a  criticism  on  the  composition  of  the  genius  iu 
front ;  but  the  short  dialogue  had  helloed,  percep- 
tibly, to  lift  the  weight  of  Henri's  gloom  ;  he  was 
beginning  to  accept  the  fate  of  the  day  with  a  phi- 
losox^her's  ijhlegm.  Already  he  had  readjusted  a 
little  difficulty  between  his  feet  and  the  lunch^ 
basket,  making  his  religious  care  of  the  latter  com- 
patible with  the  open  sin  of  improved  personal 
comfort. 

Meanwhile  the  two  on  the  front  seat  were  a 
thousand  miles  away.  Neither  we,  nor  the  day, 
nor  the  beautj'  of  the  drive  had  power  to  woo  their 
glances  from  coming  back  to  the  focal  point  of  in- 


130  THREE  NORMANDY  INNS. 

terest  they  had  found  in  each  other.  They  were 
beg-inning  to  talk,  not  about  each  other  but  of 
themselves — the  danger-signal  of  all  tete-a-tete 
adventures. 

AYlien  two  young  people  have  got  into  the  i^er- 
sonal-pronoun  stage  of  human  intercourse,  there 
is  but  one  thing  left  for  the  unfortunate  third  in 
the  party  to  do.  Yes,  now  that  I  think  of  it,  there 
are  two  roles  to  be  played.  The  usual  conception 
of  the  part  is  to  turn  marplot — to  spoil  and  ruin 
the  others'  dialogue — to  put  an  end  to  it,  if  possible, 
by  legitimate  or  illegitimate  means ;  a  very  suc- 
cessful way,  I  have  observed,  of  prolonging,  as  a 
rule,  such  a  duet  indefinitely.  The  more  enlight- 
ened actor  in  any  such  little  human  comedy,  if 
he  be  gifted  with  insight,  will  collapse  into  the 
wings,  and  let  the  two  young  idiots  liave  the  whole 
stage  to  themselves.  As  like  as  not  they'll  weary 
of  the  play,  and  of  themselves,  if  left  alone.  No 
harm  will  come  of  all  the  sentimental  strvitting 
and  the  romantic  attitudinizing,  other  than  view- 
ing the  scene,  later,  in  persioective,  as  a  rather 
amusing  bit  of  emotional  farce. 

Besides  being  in  the  very  height  of  the  spring 
fashion,  in  the  matter  of  the  sentiments,  these  two 
were  also  busily  treading,  at  just  this  particular 
moment,  the  most  alluring  of  all  the  jiaths  lead- 
ing to  what  may  be  termed  the  outlying  territo- 
rial domain  of  the  emotions ;  they  were  wandering 
through  the  land  called  Mutual  Discovery.  Now, 
this,  I  have  always  held,  is  among  the  most  de- 
lectable of  all  the  roads  of  life ;  for  it  may  lead 
one — anywhere  or  nowhere. 


THREE  NORMANDY  INNS.  131 

Therefore  it  was  from  a  purely  g-enerous  impulse 
that  I  continued  to  look  at  the  view.  The  sur- 
roundings were,  in  truth,  in  consiDiracy  with  the 
sentimentalists  on  the  front  seat ;  the  extreme 
beauty  of  the  road  would  have  made  any  but  senti- 
mental egotists  oblivious  to  all  else.  The  road 
was  a  continuation  of  the  one  we  had  followed  in 
the  morning's  drive.  Again,  all  the  greenness  of 
field  and  grass  was  braided,  inextricably,  into  the 
blue  of  river  and  ocean.  Above,  as  before,  in  that 
earlier  morning  drive,  towered  the  giant  aisles 
of  the  beaches  and  elms.  Through  those  aisles 
the  radiant  Normandy  landscape  flowed  again, 
as  music  from  rich  organ  -  piped  throats  flows 
through  cathedral  arches.  Out  j^onder,  on  the 
Seine's  wide  mouth,  the  boats  were  balancing 
themselves,  as  if  they  also  were  half  divided  be- 
tween a  doubt  and  a  longing ;  a  freshening  spurt 
of  breeze  filled  their  flapping  sails,  and  away  they 
sped,  skipping  through  the  waters  with  all  the 
gayety  which  comes  with  the  vigor  of  fresh  reso- 
lutions. The  light  that  fell  over  the  land  and 
waters  was  dazzling,  and  yet  of  an  astonishing 
limpidity ;  only  a  sun  about  to  di-op  and  end  his 
reign  could  be  at  once  so  brilliant  and  so  tender 
— the  diffused  light  had  the  sparkle  of  gold  made 
soft  by  usage.  "\\Tierever  the  eye  roved,  it  was  fed 
as  on  a  banquet  of  light  and  color.  Nothing  could 
be  more  exquisite,  for  depth  of  green  swimming 
in  a  bath  of  shadow,  than  the  meadows  curled 
beneath  the  cliffs ;  nothing  more  tempting,  to  the 
painter's  brush,  than  the  arabesque  of  blossoms 
netted  across  the  sky ;  and  would  you  have  the 


132  THREE  NORMANDY  INNS. 

living  eye  of  nature,  bristling-  with  animation, 
alive  with  winged  sails,  and  steeped  in  tlie  very 
soul  of  yellow  sunshine,  look  out  over  the  great 
sheet  of  the  waters,  and  steep  the  senses  in  such  a 
breadth  of  aqueous  splendor  as  one  sees  only  in 
one  or  two  of  the  rare  shows  of  earth. 

Then,  all  at  once,  all  too  soon,  the  great  picture 
seemed  to  shrink ;  the  quivering  pulsation  of  light 
and  color  gave  way  to  staid,  commonplace  gar- 
dens. Instead  of  hawthorn  hedges  there  was  the 
stench  of  river  smells — Ave  were  driving  over  cob- 
ble-paved streets  and  beneath  rows  of  crooked, 
crumbling  houses.  A  group  of  noisy  street  ur- 
chins greeted  us  in  derision.  And  then  we  had 
no  doubt  whatsoever  that  we  were  alreadj'  in 
Houileur  town. 

"  Honfleur  is  an  evil-smelling  place,"  I  remarked. 

"  Oh,  well,  after  all,  the  smells  of  antiquity  are 
a  part  of  the  show  ;  we  should  refuse  to  believe 
in  ancientness,  all  of  us,  I  fancy,  if  mustiness 
wasn't  served  along  with  it." 

"  How  can  any  town  have  such  a  stench  with  all 
this  river  and  water  and  verdure  to  sweeten  it  ?  "  I 
asked,  with  a  woman's  belief  in  the  morality  of 
environment — a  belief  much  cherished  by  wives 
and  mothers,  I  have  noticed. 

"  Wait  till  you  see  the  inhabitants — they'll  en- 
lighten you — the  hags  and  the  nautical  gentle- 
men along  the  basins  and  quays.  They've  dis- 
covered the  secret  that  if  cleanliness  is  next  to 
godliness,  dirt  and  the  devil  are  likewise  near 
neighbors.  Awful  set — those  Honfleur  sailors. 
The  Havre  and  Seine  i3eoj)le  call  them  Chinamen, 


THREE  NORMANDY  INNS.  133 

they  are  so  unlike  the  rest  of  France  and  French- 
men." 

"Why  are  they  so  unlike  ?  "  asked  Charm. 

"  They're  so  low  down,  so  hideously  wicked : 
they're  like  the  old  houses,  a  rotten,  worm-eaten 
set — you'll  see." 

Charm  stopped  him  then,  with  a  g"esture.  She 
stopped  the  horse  also ;  she  brouo-ht  the  whole  es- 
tablishment to  a  standstill :  and  then  she  nod- 
ded her  head  briskly  forward.  AVe  were  in  the 
midst  of  the  Honfleur  streets — streets  that  were 
running  away  from  a  wide  open  space,  in  all 
possible  directions.  In  the  centre  of  the  square 
rose  a  curious,  an  altogether  astonishing"  struct- 
ure. It  was  a  tower,  a  belfry  doubtless,  a  house, 
a  shop,  and  a  warehouse,  all  in  one  ;  such  a  pictu- 
resque medley,  in  fact,  as  only  modern  irreverence, 
in  its  lawless  disregard  of  original  purpose  and 
design,  can  produce.  The  low-timbered  sub-base 
of  the  structure  was  pierced  by  a  lovely  doorway 
with  sculptured  lintel,  and  also  with  two  imjierti- 
nent  modern  windows,  flaunting  muslin  curtains, 
and  coquettishly  attired  with  rows  of  flowering 
carnations.  Beneath  these  windows  was  a  shop. 
Above  the  whole  rose,  in  beautiful  symmetrical 
lines,  a  wooden  belfry,  tapering  from  a  square 
tower  into  a  delicately  modelled  spire.  To  com- 
plete and  accentuate  the  note  of  the  jDicturesque, 
the  superstructure  was  held  in  its  lalace  by  rude 
modern  beams,  propping  the  tower  with  a  naive 
disregard  of  decorative  embellishment.  AVe  knew 
it  at  once  as  the  quaint  and  famous  Belfry  of  St. 
Catherine. 


134  THREE  NORMANDY  INNS. 

As  we  were  about  to  turn  away  to  descend  the 
high  street,  a  Norman  maiden,  with  close-capped 
face,  leaned  over  the  carnations  to  look  down  upon 
us. 

"  That's  the  daughter  of  the  bell-ringer,  doubt- 
less. Economical  idea  that,"  Eenard  remarked, 
taking  his  cap  off  to  the  smiling  eyes. 

"  Economical  ? " 

"  Yes,  can't  you  see  ?  Bell-ringer  sends  pretty 
daughter  to  window,  just  before  vespers  or  ser- 
vice, and  she  rings  in  the  worshippers ;  no  need 
to  make  the  bells  ring."' 

"  What  nonsense !  " — but  we  laughed  as  flatter- 
ingly as  if  his  speech  had  been  a  genuine  coin  of 
wit. 

A  turn  down  the  street,  and  the  famous  Hon- 
fleur  of  the  wharves  and  floating  docks  lay  before 
us.  About  us,  all  at  once,  was  the  roar  and  hub- 
bub of  an  extraordinary  bustle  and  excitement : 
all  the  life  of  the  town,  apparently,  was  centred 
upon  the  quays.  The  latter  were  swarming  with 
a  tattered,  ragged,  bare- footed,  bare-legged  assem- 
blage of  old  women,  of  gamins,  and  sailors.  The 
collection,  as  a  collection,  was  one  gifted  with  the 
talent  of  making  itself  heard.  Everyone  appeared 
to  be  shrieking,  or  yelling,  or  crying  aloud,  if  only 
to  keep  the  others  in  voice.  Sailors  lying  on  the 
flat  parapets  shouted  hoarsely  to  their  fellows  in 
the  rigging  of  the  ships  that  lay  tossing  in  the 
docks  ;  fishermen's  families  tossed  their  farewells 
above  the  hubbub  to  the  captain-fathers  launching 
their  fishing-smacks ;  one  shrieking  infant  was  be- 
ing passed,  gayly,  from  the  poop  of  a  distant  deck. 


THREE  NORMANDY  INNS.  135 

across  the  closely  lying  shipping-,  to  the  quay's 
steps,  to  be  hushed  by  the  g-enerous  opening  of  a 
peasant  mother's  bodice.  One  could  hear  the 
straining-  of  cordag-e,  the  creak  of  masts,  the  flap  of 
the  sails,  all  the  noises  peculiar  to  shipping  riding- 
at  anchor.  The  shriek  of  steam-whistles  broke  out, 
ever  and  anon,  above  all  the  din  and  ux)roar.  Along- 
the  quay  steps  and  the  wharves  there  were  con- 
stantly forming  and  re-forming  groups  of  wretched, 
tattered  human  beings ;  of  men  with  bloated  faces 
and  a  dull,  sodden  look,  strikingly  in  contrast  with 
the  vivacity  common  among  French  people.  Even 
the  children  and  women  had  a  depraved,  shameless 
appearance,  as  if  vice  had  robbed  them  of  the  last 
vestige  of  hope  and  ambition.  Along  the  i)arapet 
a  half-dozen  di-unkards  sprawled,  asleep  or  dozing. 
At  the  legs  of  one  a  child  was  pulling,  crying : 
"  Viens — mere  f  hattra,  elle  estsoule  aicssi." 
The  sailors  out  yonder,  busy  in  the  rigging,  and 
the  men  on  the  decks  of  the  smart  brigs  and 
steamships,  whistled  and  shouted  and  sang,  as  in- 
different to  this  picture  of  human  misery  and  de- 
gradation as  if  they  had  no  kinship  with  it. 

As  a  frame  to  the  picture,  Honfleur  town  lay  be- 
neath the  crown  of  its  hills  ;  on  the  tops  and  sides 
of  the  latter,  villa  after  villa  shot  through  the 
trees,  a  curve  of  roof-line,  with  rows  of  daintily 
di-aj)ed  windows.  At  the  right,  close  to  the  wharves, 
below  the  wooded  heights,  there  loomed  out  a 
quaint  and  curious  gateway  flanked  by  two  watch- 
towers,  grim  reminders  of  the  Honfleur  of  the 
great  days.  And  above  and  about  the  whole,  en- 
compassing villa-crowded  hills  and  closely  packed 


136  THREE  NORMANDY  INNS. 

streets,  and  the  forest  of  masts  trembling  against 
the  sky,  there  hxy  a  heaven  of  spring-  and  snmmer. 

Kenard  had  driven  briskly  up  to  a  low,  rambling 
facade  parallel  with  the  quays.  It  was  the  "  Che- 
val  Blanc."  A  crowd  assembled  on  the  instant,  as 
if  appearing  according  to  command. 

"  AUons — n'encombrez  pas  ces  dames  !  "  cried  a 
very  smart  individual,  in  striking  contrast  to  the 
down-at-heel  air  of  the  hotel — a  personage  who 
took  high-handed  possession  of  us  and  our  traps. 
"  Will  CCS  dames  desire  a  salon — there  is  mi  vrai 
petit  bijou  empty  just  now,"  murmured  a  voice  in  a 
purring  soprano,  through  the  iron  opening  of  the 
cashier's  desk. 

Another  voice  was  crying  out  to  us,  as  we  wound 
our  way  upward  in  pursuit  of  the  jewel  of  a  salon. 
"And  the  widow,  La  Veuve,  shall  she  be  dry  or 
sweet  ?  " 

When  we  entered  the  low  dining-room,  a  little 
later,  Ave  found  that  the  artist  as  well  as  the  epi- 
cure has  been  in  active  conspiracy  to  make  the 
dinner  complete ;  the  choice  of  the  table  pro- 
claimed one  accomplished  in  massing  effects.  The 
table  was  parallel  with  the  low  window,  and 
through  the  latter  was  such  a  picture  as  one  trav- 
els hundreds  of  miles  to  look  upon,  only  to  miss 
seeing  it,  as  a  rule.  There  was  a  great  breadth  of 
sky  through  the  windows ;  against  the  sky  rose 
the  mastheads  ;  and  some  red  and  brown  sails  cur- 
tained the  space,  bringing  into  relief  the  gray  line 
of  the  sad-faced  old  houses  fringing  the  shore- 
line. 

"  Couldn't  have  chosen  better  if  we'd  tried,  could 


THREE  NORMANDY  INNS.  137 

we  ■?  It's  just  the  right  hour,  and  just  the  right 
kind  of  light.  Those  basins  are  unendurable^ 
sinks  of  iniquitous  ugliness,  unless  the  tide's  in 
and  there's  a  siuiset  going  on.  Just  look — now ! 
Who  cares  whether  Honlleurhas  been  done  to  death 
by  the  tourist  horde  or  not  ?  and  been  jDainted  un- 
til one's  art-stomach  turns  ?  I  presume  I  ought  to 
beg  your  pardon,  but  I  can't  stand  the  abomina- 
tion of  modern  repetitions ;  the  hand-organ  busi- 
ness in  art,  I  call  it.  But  at  this  hour,  at  this 
time  of  the  year,  before  this  rattle-trap  of  an  inn 
is  as  packed  with  Baedeker  attachments  as  a  Si- 
berian prison  is  with  Nihilists — to  run  out  here 
and  look  at  these  quays  and  basins,  and  old  Hon- 
Heur  Ijang  here,  beneath  her  green  cliffs — well, 
short  of  Cairo,  I  don't  know  any  better  bit  of  color. 
Look  out  there,  now !  See  those  sails,  dripping 
with  color,  and  that  fellow  up  there,  letting  the 
sail  down — there,  splash  it  goes  into  the  water,  I 
knew  it  would;  now  tell  me  where  will  you  get 
better  blues  or  3"ellows  or  bro^\^lS,  with  just  the 
right  purj)les  in  the  shore  line,  than  j'oull  get 
here  ?  " 

Renard  was  fairly  started ;  he  had  the  bit  of  the 
born  monologist  between  his  teeth ;  he  stopped 
barely  long  enough  to  hear  even  an  echoing  as- 
sent. We  were  quite  content ;  we  continued  to 
sip  our  champagne  and  to  feast  our  eyes.  Mean- 
while Benard  talked  on. 

"  Guide-books — what's  the  use  of  guide-books  ? 
What  do  they  teach  you,  anj^waj^  ?  Open  any  one 
of  the  cursed  clap -trap  things.  Yes,  yes,  I  know 
I  oughtn't  to  use  vigorous  language." 


138  THREE  NORMANDY  INNS. 

"Do,"  bleated  Charm,  smiling-  sweetly  up  at 
him.     "  Do,  it  makes  j^ou  seem  manly." 

Even  Kenard  had  to  take  time  to  laugh. 

"  Thank  you !  I'm  not  above  making-  use  of  any 
aids  to  create  that  illusion.  Well,  as  I  was  saying, 
what  guide-book  ever  really  helped  an3^one  to 
see  ? — that's  what  one  travels  for,  I  take  it.  Here, 
for  instance,  Murray  or  Baedeker  would  give  you 
this  sort  of  thing :  '  Honfleur,  an  ancient  town, 
with  j)ier,  beaches,  three  floating  docks,  and  a 
good  deal  of  trade  in  timber,  cod,  etc. ;  exports 
large  quantities  of  eggs  to  England.'  Good  heav- 
ens !  it  makes  one  boil  I  Do  sane,  reasonable  mor- 
tals travel  three  thousand  miles  to  read  ancient 
history  done  up  in  modem  binding-,  served  uj)  a 
la  Murray,  a  la  Baedeker  %  " 

"  Oh,  you  do  them  injustice,  I  think — the  guides 
do  go  in  for  a  little  more  of  the  picturesque  than 
that " 

"  And  how — how  do  thej?^  do  it  ?  This  is  the 
sort  of  thing  thej^'ll  give  you :  '  Church  of  St. 
Catherine  is  large  and  remarkable,  entireh^  of  tim- 
ber and  i)laster,  the  largest  of  its  kind  in  France.' 
Ah !  ha  !  that's  the  picturesque  with  a  vengeance. 
No,  no,  my  friends,  throw  the  guide-books  into  the 
river,  laitch  them  overboard  through  the  port- 
holes, along  with  the  flowers,  and  letters  io  he  read 
three  days  out,  and  the  nasty  novels  people  send 
you  to  make  the  crossing  pleasant.  And  when 
you  travel,  really  travel,  mind,  never  make  a  i^lau 
— just  go — go  anywhere,  whenever  the  impulse 
seizes  you — and  you  may  hope  to  get  there,  in  the 
right  way,  possibly." 


THREE  NORMANDY  INNS.  139 

Here  Kenard  stopped  to  finish,  his  g-lass,  drain- 
ing" the  last  drop  of  the  yellow  liquid.  Then  he 
went  on :  "  To  travel !  To  start  when  an  impulse 
seizes  one !  To  go — anywhere  !  Why  not !  It  was 
for  this,  after  all,  that  all  of  us  have  come  our  three 
thousand  miles."  Perhaps  it  was  the  restless  toss- 
ing of  the  shipping-  out  yonder  in  the  basins  that 
awoke  an  answering  impatience  within,  in  re- 
sponse to  Kenard's  outburst.  Where  did  they  go, 
those  ships,  and,  up  beyond  this  mouth  of  the 
Seine,  how  looked  the  shores,  and  what  life  lived 
itself  out  beneath  the  rustling  poplars  ?  Is  it  the 
mission  of  all  flowing  water  to  create  an  unrest  in 
men's  minds  ? 

Meanwhile,  though  the  talk  was  not  done,  the 
dinner  was  long  since  eaten.  We  rose  to  take  a 
glimpse  of  Honfleur  and  its  famous  old  basin. 
The  quays  and  the  floating  docks,  in  front  of 
which  we  had  been  dining,  are  a  part  of  the  nine- 
teenth century ;  the  great  shi^^s  ride  in  to  them 
from  the  sea.  But  here,  in  this  inner  quadi'angular 
dock,  beside  which  we  were  soon  standing,  traced 
by  Duquesne  when  Louis  the  Great  discovered  the 
maritime  importance  of  Honfleur,  we  found  still 
reminders  of  the  old  life.  Here  were  the  same 
old  houses  that,  in  the  seventeenth  century,  up- 
right and  brave  in  their  brand  new  carvings,  saw 
the  high-decked,  picturesquely  jDainted  Spanish 
and  Portuguese  ships  ride  in  to  dip  their  flag  to 
tlie  French  fleur-de-lis.  There  are  but  few  of  the 
old  streets  left  to  crowd  about  the  shipping  life 
that  still  floats  here,  as  in  those  bygone  days  of 
Honfleur  pride ; — when  Havre  was  but  a  yellow 


1-10  THREE  NORMANDY  INNS. 

stri])  of  sand ;  when  the  Honfleur  merchants  would 
have  hiughed  to  scorn  any  prophet's  cry  of  warn- 
ing that  one  day  that  sand-bar  opposite,  despised, 
disregarded,  boasting-  only  a  chapel  and  a  tavern, 
would  grow  and  grow,  and  would  steal  year  by  year 
and  inch  by  inch  bustling  HonHeur's  traffic,  till 
none  was  left. 

In  the  old  adventurous  days,  along  with  the 
Spanish  ships  came  others,  French  trading  and 
fishing  vessels,  Avitli  the  salty  crustations  of  long 
voyages  on  their  hulls  and  masts.  The  wharves 
were  alive  then  with  fish-wives,  whom  Evelyn  will 
tell  you  wore  "  iiseful  habits  made  of  goats'  skin." 
The  captains'  daughters  Avere  in  quaint  Normandy 
costumes ;  and  the  high-peaked  coifs  and  the  stiff 
woollen  skirts,  as  well  as  the  goat-skin  coats, 
trembled  as  the  women  darted  hither  and  thither 
among  the  sailors — whose  high  cries  filled  the  air 
as  they  i^icked  out  mother  and  wife.  Then  were 
bronzed  beards  buried  in  the  deeply-wrinkled  old 
meres'  faces,  and  young,  strong  arms  clasped 
about  maidens'  waists.  The  whole  town  rang  with 
gayety  and  with  the  mad  joy  of  reunion.  On  the 
morrow,  coiling  its  way  up  the  steep  hillsides, 
wound  the  long  lines  of  the  grateful  comjDany,  one 
composed  chiefly  of  the  crews  of  these  vessels 
happily  come  to  port.  The  procession  would  mount 
up  to  the  little  church  of  Notre  Dame  de  Grace 
perched  on  the  hill  overlooking  the  harbor.  Home 
even — so  deep  was  their  joy  at  deliverance  from 
shipwreck  and  so  fervent  their  piety — crawled  up, 
bare-footed,  with  bared  head,  wives  and  children 
following,   weeping  for  joy,  as  the  rude  ex-vofos 


THREE  NORMANDY  INNS.  141 

were  laid  by  the  sailors'  trembling  bands  at  the 
feet  of  the  Virgin  Lady. 

As  reminders  of  this  old  life,  what  is  left  ?  With- 
in the  stone  quadi'angle  we  found  clustered  a  mot- 
ley Heet  of  wrecks  and  fishing-vessels ;  the  nets, 
flung  out  to  diy  in  the  night  air,  hung  like  shrouds 
from  the  mastheads ;  here  and  there  a  figure  be- 
strode a  deck,  a  rough  shape,  that  seemed  en- 
dowed with  a  double  gift  of  life,  so  still  and 
noiseless  was  the  town.  Around  the  silent  dock, 
grouped  in  mysterious  medley  and  confusion, 
were  tottering  roof  lines,  j) rejecting  eaves,  narrow 
windows,  all  crazily  tortured  and  out  of  shape. 
Here  and  there,  beneath  the  broad  beams  of  sup- 
port, a  little  interior,  dimly  lighted,  showed  a 
knot  of  sailors  gathered,  drinking  or  lounging. 
Up  high  beneath  a  chimney  perilously  overlook- 
ing a  rude  facade,  a  quaint  shape  emerged,  one 
as  decrepit  and  forlorn  of  life  and  hope  as  the 
decaying  houses  it  overlooked.  Silence,  pov- 
erty, wretchedness,  the  dregs'  of  life,  to  this  has 
Honfleur  fallen.  These  old  houses,  in  their  slow 
decay,  hiding  in  their  dark  bosom  the  gaunt  se- 
crets of  this  poverty  and  human  misery,  seemed  to 
be  dancing  a  dance  of  drunken  indifference.  Some 
day  the  dance  will  end  in  a  fall,  and  then  the 
Honfleur  of  the  past  will  not  even  boast  of  a 
ghost,  as  reminder  of  its  days  of  splendor. 

An  artist  quicker  than  anyone  else,  I  think,  can 
be  trusted  to  take  one  out  of  history  and  into  the 
picturesque.  Eenard  refused  to  see  anything  but 
beauty  in  the  decay  about  us  ;  for  him  the  houses 
were  at  just  the  right  drooping  angle ;  the  roof 


142  THREE  NORMANDY  INNS. 

lines  were  delig-litful  in  their  irreg'ularity ;  and 
the  fluttering-  tremor  of  the  nets,  along-  the  rig- 
ging, was  the  very  poetry  of  motion. 

"  We'll  finish  the  evening-  on  the  pier,"  he  ex- 
claimed, suddenly:  "the  moon  will  soon  be  up 
— we  can  sit  it  out  there  and  see  it  begin  to 
color  things." 

The  pier  was  more  popular  than  the  quaint 
old  dock.  It  was  crowded  with  promenaders, 
who,  doubtless,  were  taking  a  bite  of  the  sea-air. 
Through  the  dusk  the  tripping-  figures  of  gentle- 
men in  white  flannels  and  jaunty  caps  brushed 
the  provincial  Houfleur  swells.  Some  gentle 
English  voices  told  us  some  of  the  villa  residents 
had  come  down  to  the  pier,  moved  by  the  beauty 
of  the  night.  Groups  of  sailors,  with  tanned 
faces  and  punctured  ears  hooped  with  gold  rings, 
sat  on  the  broad  stone  parapets,  talking  unintelli- 
g-ible  Breton  jmfois.  The  pier  ran  far  out,  almost 
to  the  Havre  cliffs,  it  seemed  to  us,  as  we  walked 
along  in  the  dusk  of  the  young  nig-ht.  The  sky 
was  slowly  losing  its  soft  flame.  A  tender,  mel- 
low half  light  was  stealing  over  the  waters,  mak- 
ing the  town  a  rich  mass  of  shade.  Over  the  top 
of  the  low  hills  the  moon  shot  out,  a  large,  globular 
mass  of  beaten  g-old.  At  first  it  was  only  a  part 
and  portion  of  the  universal  lighting,  of  the  still 
flushed  sky,  of  the  red  and  crimson  harbor  lights, 
of  the  dim  twinkling  of  lamps  and  candles  in  the 
rude  interiors  along  the  shore.  But  slowly,  tri- 
umphantlj^  the  great  lamp  swung  up  ;  it  rose 
higher  and  higher  into  the  soft  summer  sky,  and  as 
it  mounted,  skj^  and  earth  began  to  pale  and  fade. 


THREE  NORMANDY  INNS.  143 

Soon  there  was  only  a  silver  world  to  look  out 
upon — a  wealth  of  quivering-  silver  over  the  breast 
of  the  waters,  and  a  deeper,  richer  gray  on  cliffs 
and  roof  tops.  Out  of  this  silver  world  came  the 
sound  of  waters,  lapping  in  soft  cadence  against 
the  pier ;  the  rise  and  fall  of  sails,  stirring  in  the 
night  wind ;  the  tread  of  human  footsteps  moving 
in  slow,  measured  beat,  in  unison  with  the  rhythm 
of  the  waters.  Just  when  the  stars  were  scatter- 
ing- their  gold  on  the  bosom  of  the  sea-river,  a 
voice  rang  out,  a  rich,  full  baritone.  Quite  near, 
two  sailors  were  seated,  with  their  arms  about 
each  other's  shoulders.  They  also  were  looking 
at  the  moonlight,  and  one  of  them  was  singing  to 
it: 

"  Te  souviens-tu,  Maine, 
De  notre  enfcoice  aux  champs  ? 

Te  souviens-tu  ? 

Le  temps  queje  regrette 
C'esi  le  temps  qui  n'est  plus." 


DIVES: 
AN   INN  ON   A  HIGH-ROAD. 


^ICi.^ 


w>  1^^ 


CHAPTEK  XIV. 

A    COAST    DRIVE. 

On  our  return    to    Villerville    we 
Ck*''^^^>'.^        found    that    the    charm    of    the 
.  ^  J  place,  for  us,  was  a  broken  one. 

^i  4il^^  We  had  seen  the  world;  the  ef- 
fect of  that  experience  was  to 
produce  the  common  result — 
there  was  a  fine  deposit  of  dis- 
content in  the  cup  of  our  pleas- 
.  )  ure. 

Madame  Fouchet  had  made  use 
of  our  absence  to  settle  our  destiny;  she  had 
rented  her  villa.  This  was  one  of  the  bitter  dregs. 
Another  was  to  find  that  the  life  of  the  villag-e 
seemed  to  pass  us  by ;  it  gave  us  to  understand, 
with  unflattering  frankness,  that  for  strangers 
who  made  no  bargains  for  the  season,  it  had  little 
or  no  civility  to  squander.  For  the  Villerville 
beach,  the  inn,  and  the  villas  were  crowded. 
Mere  Mouchard  was  tossing  omelettes  from  morn- 
ing till  night ;  even  Augustine  was  far  too  hurried 
to  pay  her  usual  visit  to  the  creamery.  A  detach- 
ment of  Parisian  costumes  and  be-ribboned  nur- 
sery maids  was  crowding  out  the  fish -wives  and 
old  hags  from  their  stations  on  the  low  door-steps 
and  the  grasses  on  the  cliffs. 


148  TUBER  NORMANDY  INNS. 

Even  Fouehet  was  no  long-er  a  familiar  figure  in 
the  foregronnd  of  his  garden ;  his  roses  were  bloom- 
ing' now  for  the  present  owners  of  his  villa.  He 
and  madame  had  betaken  themselves  to  a  box  of  a 
hut  on  the  very  outskirts  of  the  village — a  miser- 
able little  hovel  with  two  rooms  and  a  bit  of  past- 
ure land  being  the  substitute,  as  a  dwelling-,  for  the 
g:ay  villa  and  its  garden  along  the  sea-clifis.  Pity, 
however,  would  have  been  entirely  wasted  on  the 
Fouehet  household  and  their  change  of  habitation. 
Tucked  in,  cramped,  and  uncomfortable  beneath 
the  low  eaves  of  their  cabin  ceilings,  they  could  now 
wear  away  the  summer  in  blissful  contentment : 
Were  they  not  living  on  nothing — on  less  than 
nothing,  in  this  dark  joocket  of  a  chaumiere,  while 
their  fine  house  yonder  was  paying"  for  itself  hand- 
somely, week  after  week  ?  The  heart  beats  high,  in 
a  Norman  breast,  when  the  pocket  bulges ;  gold — 
that  is  better  than  bread  to  feel  in  one's  hand. 

The  whole  village  wore  this  triumphant  expres- 
sion— now  that  the  season  was  beginning.  Paris 
had  come  down  to  them,  at  last,  to  be  shorn  of  its 
strength ;  angling  for  pennies  in  a  Parisian  pocket 
was  better,  far,  than  casting  nets  into  the  sea. 
There  was  also  more  contentment  in  such  fishing 
— for  true  Norman  wit. 

Only  once  did  the  villag^e  change  its  look  of 
triumph  to  one  of  polite  regret ;  for  though  it  was 
Norman,  it  was  also  French.  It  remembered,  on 
the  morning-  of  our  departure,  that  the  civilitj^  of 
the  farewell  costs  nothing,  and  like  bread  prodi- 
gally scattered  on  the  waters,  may  perchance  bring 
back  a  tenfold  recompense. 


THREE  NORMANDT  INNS.  149 

Even  the  morning  arose  with  a  flattering"  pallor. 
It  was  a  gray  day.  The  low  houses  were  like  so 
many  rows  of  jiale  faces ;  the  caps  of  the  fish- 
wives, as  they  nodded  a  farewell,  seemed  to  put 
the  villag-e  in  half-mourning. 

"  You  will  have  a  perfect  day  for  3'our  drive — 
there's  nothing-  better  than  these  grays  in  the 
French  landscape,"  Renard  was  saying",  at  our  car- 
riage wheels ;  "  they  bring  out  every  tone.  And 
the  sea  is  wonderful.  Pity  you're  going.  Grand 
day  for  the  mussel-bed.  However,  I  shall  see  you, 
I  shall  see  you.  Remember  me  to  Monsieur  Paul : 
tell  him  to  save  me  a  bottle  of  his  famous  old 
wine.     Good-bj',  good-by." 

There  was  a  shower  of  rose-leaves  flung  out  upon 
us :  a  great  sweep  of  the  now  familiar  beret :  a 
sonorous  "  Hui !  "  from  our  di'iver,  with  an  accom- 
paniment of  vigorous  whip-snapping,  and  we  were 
off. 

The  grayness  of  the  closely-packed  houses  was 
soon  exchanged  for  the  farms  lying  beneath  the 
elms.  With  the  widening  of  the  distance  between 
our  carriage-wheels  and  Villerville,  there  was  soon 
a  gi*eat  expanse  of  mouse-colored  sky  and  the 
breath  of  a  silver  sea.  The  fields  and  foliage  were 
softly  brilliant ;  when  the  light  wind  stirred  the 
grain,  the  poppies  and  bluets  were  as  vivid  as 
flowers  seen  in  dreams. 

It  is  easy  to  understand,  I  think,  why  French 
painters  are  so  enamoured  of  their  gray  skies — such 
a  background  makes  even  the  commonplace  wear 
an  air  of  importance.  All  the  tones  of  the  land- 
scaj)e  were  astonishingly  serious  ;  the  features  of 


150  THREE  NORMANDY  INNS. 

the  coast  and  the  inland  country  were  as  signifi- 
cant as  if  they  were  meditating  an  outbreak  into 
speech.  It  was  the  kind  of  day  that  bred  reflec- 
tion ;  one  could  put  anything  one  liked  into  the 
picture  with  a  certainty  of  its  fitting  the  frame. 
We  were  putting  a  certain  amount  of  regret  into 
it ;  for  though  Yillerville  has  seen  us  depart  with 
civilized  indifference  or  the  stolidity  of  the  bar- 
barian— for  they  are  one,  we  found  our  own  attain- 
ments in  the  science  of  unfeelingness  deficient ;  to 
look  down  upon  the  village  from  the  next  hill -top 
was  like  facing  a  lost  joy. 

Once  on  the  higliroad,  however,  the  life  along 
the  shore  gave  us  little  time  for  the  futility  of  re- 
gret. Kegret,  at  best,  is  a  barren  thing  :  like  the 
mule,  it  is  incapable  of  perpetuating  its  own  mis- 
takes ;  it  apxDears  to  apologize,  indeed,  for  its  stu- 
pidity by  making  its  exit  as  speedily  as  possible. 
With  the  next  turn  of  the  road  we  were  in  fitting 
condition  to  greet  the  wildest  form  of  adventure. 

Pedlars'  carts  and  the  lumbering  Normandy  farm 
wagons  were,  at  first,  our  chief  companions  along 
the  roadway.  Here  and  there  a  head  would  peep 
forth  from  a  villa  window,  or  a  hand  be  stretched 
out  into  the  air  to  see  if  any  rain  was  falling  from 
the  moist  sky.  The  farms  were  quieter  than  usual ; 
there  was  an  air  of  patient  waiting  in  the  court- 
yards, among  the  blouses  and  standing  cattle,  as 
though  both  man  and  beast  were  there  in  attend- 
ance on  the  day  and  the  weather,  till  the  latter 
could  come  to  the  point  of  a  final  decision  in  re- 
gard to  the  rain. 

Finally,  as  we  were  nearing  Trouville,  the  big 


THREE  NORMANDY  INNS.  151 

drops  fell.  The  grain-fields  were  soon  bent  double 
beneath  the  spasmodic  shower.  The  poppies  were 
di'enched,  so  were  the  cobble-paved  courtyards ; 
only  the  geese  and  the  regiment  of  the  ducks  came 
abroad  to  revel  in  the  downpour.  The  villas  were 
hermetically  sealed  now — their  summer  finery  was 
not  made  for  a  wetting.  The  landscape  had  no 
such  reserves  ;  it  gave  itself  up  to  the  light  summer 
shower  as  if  it  knew  that  its  raiment,  like  Kachel's, 
when  dampened  the  better  to  take  her  j^lastic  out- 
lines, only  gained  in  tone  and  loveliness  the  closer 
it  fitted  the  recumbent  figure  of  mother  earth. 

Our  coachman  could  never  have  been  mistaken 
for  any  other  than  a  good  Xorman.  He  was  en- 
dowed with  the  gift  of  oratory  peculiar  to  the 
country  ;  and  his  profanity  was  enriched  with  all 
the  flavor  of  the  provincial's  elation  in  the  com- 
mitting of  sin.  From  the  earliest  moment  of  our 
starting,  the  stream  of  his  talk  had  been  unending". 
His  vocabulary  was  such  as  to  have  excited  the 
envy  and  desjDair  of  a  French  realist,  imiDassioned 
in  the  pursuit  of  " the  word.' 

"  Hid  ! — h-r-r-r!  " — This  was  the  most  common 
of  his  salutations  to  his  horse.  It  was  the  Nor- 
man coachman's  familiar  apostrophe,  impossible 
of  imitation ;  it  was  also  one  no  Norman  horse  who 
respects  himself  moves  an  inch  without  first  hear- 
ing. Chat  Noir  was  a  horse  of  purest  Norman  an- 
cestry ;  his  Percheron  blood  was  as  untainted  as 
his  intelligence  was  unclouded  by  having  no 
mixtures  of  tongues  with  which  to  deal.  His 
owner's  "  Hui ! "  lifted  him  with  arrowy  light- 
ness to  the  top  of  a  hill.     The  deeper  "  Bougre  " 


152  THREE  NORMANDY  INNS. 

steadied  his  uerve  for  a  g"ood  mile  of  nnbroken 
trottius:.  Any  toil  is  pleasant  iu  the  gTay  of  a 
cool  morning',  with  a  friend  holding  the  reins 
who  is  a,  g'ifted  monologist ;  even  imprecations, 
rightly  administered,  are  only  lively  punctuations 
to  really  talented  speech. 

"  Come,  my  beauty,  take  in  thy  breath — courage  ! 
The  hill  is  before  thee  !  Curse  thy  withered  legs, 
and  is  it  thus  thou  stumbleth  ?  On — up  with  thee 
and  that  mountain  of  flesh  thoii  carriest  about  with 
thee."  And  the  mountain  of  flesh  would  be  lifted — 
it  was  carried  as  lightly  by  the  finely-feathered 
legs  and  the  broad  haunches  as  if  the  firm  avoir- 
dupois were  so  much  gossamer  tissue.  On  and  on 
the  neat,  strong-  hoofs  rang  their  metallic  click, 
clack  along  the  smooth  macadam.  They  had  car- 
ried us  past  the  farm-houses,  the  clifi's,  the  mead- 
ows, and  the  Norman-roofed  manoirs  buried  in  their 
apple-orchards.  These  same  hoofs  were  now  care- 
fully, dexterously  picking*  their  way  down  the 
steep  hill  that  leads  directly  into  the  city  of  the 
Trouville  villas. 

Presently,  the  hoofs  came  to  a  sudden  halt,  from 
sheer  amazement.  What  was  this  order,  this  com- 
mand the  quick  Percheron  hearing  had  overheard  ? 
Not  to  go  any  farther  into  this  summer  city — not 
to  go  down  to  its  sand-beach  —  not  to  wander 
through  the  labyrinth  of  its  g-ay  little  streets  ? — 
Verily,  it  is  the  fate  of  a  good  horse,  how  often! 
to  carry  fools,  and  the  destiny  of  intelligence  to 
serve  those  deficient  in  mind  and  sense. 

The  criticism  on  our  choice  of  direction  was  an- 
nounced by  the  hoofs  turning  resignedlj^  with  tho 


THREE  NORMANDY  INNS.  153 

patient  assent  of  tlie  fatigue  that  is  bred  of  dis- 
gust, into  one  of  the  upper  Trouville  by-streets. 
Our  coachman  contented  himself  with  a  commiser- 
ating" shrug  and  a  prolonged  How  of  explanation. 
Perhaps  ces  dames,  being  strangers,  did  not  know 
that  Trouville  was  now  beginning  its  real  season 
— its  season  of  baths  ?  The  Casino,  in  truth,  was 
only  opened  a  week  since  ;  but  we  could  hear  the 
band  even  now  playing  above  the  noise  of  the 
waves.  And  behold,  the  villas  were  filling ;  each 
day  some  gr ancle  dame  came  down  to  take  posses- 
sion of  her  house  by  the  sea. 

How  could  we  hope  to  make  a  Frenchman  com- 
l^rehend  an  instinctive  imjiulse  to  turn  our  backs 
on  the  Trouville  world  ?  AYhat,  pray,  had  we  just 
now  to  do  with  fashion — with  the  purring  accents 
of  boudoirs,  with  all  the  life  we  had  run  away 
from  ?  Surely  the  romance — the  charm  of  our 
present  experiences  would  be  put  to  flight  once 
we  exchanged  salutations  with  the  heaii  monde — 
with  that  world  that  is  so  sceptical  of  any  pleasure 
save  that  which  blooms  in  its  own  hot-houses,  and 
so  disdainful  of  all  forms  of  life  save  those  that  are 
modelled  on  fashion's  types.  We  had  fled  from 
cities  to  escape  all  this  ;  were  we,  forsooth,  to  be 
pushed  into  the  motley  crowd  of  commonplace 
pleasure-seekers  because  of  the  scorn  of  a  human 
creature,  and  the  mute  criticism  of  a  beast  that 
was  hired  to  do  the  bidding  of  his  betters  ?  The 
world  of  fashion  was  one  to  be  looked  out  upon  as 
a  part  of  the  general  mise-en-schie — as  a  bit  of  the 
universal  decoration  of  this  vast  amphitheatre  of 
the  Normandy  beaches. 


154       THREE  NORMANDY  INNS. 

Chat  noir  had  little  reverence  for  philosophic 
reflections ;  he  turned  a  sharjj  corner  just  then  ; 
he  stopped  short,  directly  in  front  of  the  broad 
windows  of  a  confectioner's  shop.  This  time  he 
did  not  apijeal  in  vain  to  the  strangers  with  a 
barbarian's  contempt  for  the  great  world.  The 
brisk  drive  and  the  salt  in  the  air  were  stimulants 
to  appetite  to  be  respected;  it  is  not  ever}-  day 
the  palate  has  so  fine  an  edge. 

"  Dii  the,  mesdauies — a  I'Anglaise  ?  "  a  neatly- 
corsetted  shape,  in  black,  to  set  off  a  pair  of  daz- 
zling pink  cheeks,  shone  out  behind  rows  of  apri- 
cot tarts.  There  was  also  a  cap  that  conveyed  to 
one,  through  the  medium  of  pink  bows,  the  ca- 
pacities of  coquetry  that  lay  in  the  depths  of  the 
rich  brown  eyes  beneath  them.  The  attractive 
shape  emerged  at  once  from  behind  the  counter, 
to  set  chairs  about  the  little  table.  We  were  bid- 
den to  be  seated  with  an  air  of  smiling  grace,  one 
that  invested  the  act  with  the  emphasis  of  genu- 
ine hospitality.  Soon  a  great  clatter  arose  in  the 
rear  of  the  shop ;  opinions  and  counter-opinions 
were  being  volubly  exchanged  in  shrill  French, 
as  to  whether  the  water  should  or  should  not 
come  to  a  boil ;  also  as  to  whether  the  leaves  of 
oolong  or  of  green  should  be  chosen  for  our  bev- 
erage. The  cap  fluttered  in  several  times  to  ask, 
with  exquisite  politeness  —  a  politeness  which 
could  not  wholly  veil  the  hidden  anxiety — our 
own  tastes  and  preferences.  When  the  cajD  re- 
turned to  the  battling  forces  behind  the  screen, 
armed  with  the  authority  of  our  confessed  preju- 
dices, a  new  war  of  tongues  arose.     The  fate  of 


THREE  NORMANDY  INNS.  155 

nations,  trembling  on  the  turn  of  a  battle,  mig-lit 
have  been  settled  before  that  pot  of  water,  so 
watched  and  guarded  over,  was  brought  to  a  boil. 
AVhen,  finally,  the  little  tea  service  was  brought 
in,  every  detail  was  perfect  in  taste  and  appoint- 
ment, except  the  tea ;  the  faction  that  had  held 
out  valiantly,  that  the  water  should  not  boil, 
had  prevailed,  as  the  half-soaked  tea-leaves  float- 
ing- on  top  of  our  full  cups  triumphantly  pro- 
claimed. 

We  sipped  the  beverage,  agreeing  Balzac  had 
well  named  it  ce  hoisson  fade  et  melcmcolique  ;  the 
novelist's  disdain  being  the  better  understood  as 
we  reflected  he  had  doubtless  only  tasted  it  as 
concocted  by  French  ineptitude.  We  were  very 
merry  over  the  liver-colored  liquid,  as  we  sipped 
it  and  quoted  Balzac.  But  not  for  a  moment  had 
our  merriment  deceived  the  brown  eyes  and  the 
fluttering  cap -ribbons.  A  little  drama  of  remorse 
was  soon  played  for  our  benefit.  It  was  she,  her 
very  self,  the  cap  protested— as  she  pointed  a 
tragic  finger  at  the  swelling-,  rounded  line  of  her 
firm  bodice — it  was  she  who  had  insisted  that  the 
water  should  not  boil ;  there  had  been  ladies — des 
vraies  cmglaises — here,  only  last  summer,  who 
would  not  that  the  water  should  boil,  when  their 
tea  was  made.  And  now,  it  appears  that  they 
were  wrong,  "  detail  jyrohahlement  une  fantaisie  de 
la  part  de  ces  dames."  Would  we  wait  for  an- 
other cup  ?  It  would  take  but  an  instant,  it  was 
a  little  mistake,  so  easy  to  remedy.  But  this  mis- 
take, like  many  another,  like  crime,  for  instance, 
could  never  be  remedied,  we  smilingly  told  her ; 


156  THREE  NORMANDY  INNS. 

a  smile  that  changed  her  solicitous  remorse  to  a 
humorist's  view  of  the  situation. 

Another  humorist,  one  accustomed  to  vieAv  the 
world  from  heights  known  as  trapeze  elevations, 
Ave  met  a  little  later  on  our  way  out  of  the  narrow 
upper  streets ;  he  was  also  looking  down  over 
Trouville.  It  was  a  motley  figure  in  a  Pierrot  garb, 
with  a  smaller  striped  body,  both  in  the  stage 
pallor  of  their  trade.  These  were  somewhat  start- 
ling objects  to  confront  on  a  Normandy  high-road. 
For  clowns,  hoAvever,  taken  by  surprise,  they  were 
astonishingly  civil.  They  passed  their  "  horgour  " 
to  us  and  to  the  coachman  as  glibly  as  though  ac- 
costing us  from  the  commoner  circus  distance. 

"  They  have  come  to  taste  of  the  fresh  air,  they 
have,"  laconically  remarked  our  driver,  as  his 
round  Norman  eyes  ran  over  the  muscled  bodies 
of  the  two  athletes.  "I  had  a  brother  who  was 
one — I  had ;  he  was  a  famous  one — he  was  ;•  he 
broke  his  neck  once,  Avhen  the  net  had  been  for- 
gotten. They  all  do  it— ils  se  cassent  le  cou  tons,  fof 
ou  tard  .'  Allans  —  toi  —  fas  peur,  foi  ?  "  Chat 
noir's  great  back  was  quivering  with  fear :  he 
had  no  taste,  himself,  for  shapes  like  these,  spec- 
tral and  Avan  as  ghosts,  walking  about  in  the  sun. 
He  took  us  as  far  aw^ay  as  possible,  and  as  quick- 
ly, from  these  reminders  of  the  thing  men  call 
pleasure. 

We,  meanwhile,  were  asking  Pierre  for  a  cer- 
tain promised  chateau,  one  famous  for  its  beauty, 
betAveen  TrouA'ille  and  Cabourg. 

"  It  is  here,  madame — the  chateau,"  he  said,  at 
last. 


THREE  NORMANDY  INNS.  157 

Two  lions  couchant,  seated  on  wide  pedestals 
beneath  a  company  of  noble  trees,  were  the  only 
visible  inhabitants  of  the  dwelling.  There  was  a 
sweep  of  g-ardens ;  terraces  that  picked  their  way 
daintily  down  the  cliffs  toward  the  sea,  a  mansard 
roof  that  covered  a  large  mansion — these  were  the 
sole  aspects  of  chateau  life  to  keep  the  trees  com- 
pany. In  spite  of  Pierre's  urgent  insistance  that 
the  view  was  even  more  beautiful  than  the  one 
from  the  hill,  we  refused  to  exchange  our  first  ex- 
periences of  the  beauty  of  the  prospect  for  a  second 
which  would  be  certain  to  invite  criticism ;  for  it  is 
ever  the  critic  in  us  that  plays  the  part  of  Blue- 
beard to  our  many- wived  illusions. 

We  passed  between  the  hedgerows  with  not  even 
a  sigh  of  regret.  We  were  presently  rewarded  by 
something  better  than  an  illusion  — by  reality, 
which,  at  its  best,  can  afford  to  laugh  at  the  spec- 
tral shadow  of  itself.  Near  the  chateau  there  lived 
on,  the  remnant  of  a  hamlet.  It  was  a  hamlet,  ap- 
parently, that  boasted  only  one  farm-house ;  and  the 
farm-house  could  show  but  a  single  hayrick.  Be- 
neath the  sloping  roof,  modelled  into  shape  by  a 
pitchfork  and  whose  symmetrical  lines  put  Man- 
sard's clumsy  creation  yonder  to  the  blush,  sat 
an  old  couple — a  man  and  a  woman.  Both  were 
old,  wdtli  the  rounded  backs  of  the  laborer ;  the 
woman's  hand  was  Ij'ing  in  the  man's  open  palm, 
while  his  free  arm  was  clasped  about  her  neok 
with  all  the  tenderness  of  young  love.  Both  of 
the  old  heads  were  laid  back  on  the  pillow  made 
by  the  freshly-piled  grasses.  They  had  done  a  long 
day's  work  already,  before  the  sun  had  reached  its 


158  THREE  NORMANDY  INNS. 

meridian ;  tliey  were  weary  and  resting-  here  be- 
fore tliey  went  back  to  their  toil. 

This  was  better  than  the  view ;  it  made  life  seem 
finer  than  nature  ;  how  rich  these  two  poor  old 
thing's  looked,  with  only  their  iDoverty  about  them ! 

Meanwhile  Pierre  had  quickly  changed  the  rural 
mise-en-scene  ;  instead  of  pink  hawthorn  hedges  we 
were  in  the  midst  of  young  forest  trees.  AVhy  is 
it  that  a  forest  is  always  a  surprise  in  France  ?  Is 
it  that  we  have  such  a  respect  for  French  thrift,  that 
a  real  forest  seems  a  waste  of  timber  ?  There  are 
forests  and  forests ;  this  one  seemed  almost  a  strip- 
ling in  its  tentative  delicacy,  compared  to  the  ma- 
ture splendor  of  Fontainebleau,  for  example.  This 
forest  had  the  virility  of  a  young  savage ;  it  was 
neither  dense  nor  vast ;  yet,  in  contrast  to  the  rib- 
bony  grain-fields,  and  to  the  finish  of  the  villa  parks, 
was  as  refreshing  to  the  eye  as  the  right  chord 
that  strikes  upon  the  ear  after  a  succession  of  trills. 

In  all  this  fair  Normandy  sea-coast,  Avith  its  won- 
derful inland  contrasts,  there  was  but  one  disap- 
l^ointing  note.  One  looked  in  vain  for  the  old 
Normandy  costumes.  The  blouse  and  the  close 
white  cap — this  is  all  that  is  left  of  the  wondrous 
headgear,  the  short  brilliant  petticoats,  the  em- 
broidered stomacher,  and  the  Caen  and  Eouen  jew- 
els, abroad  in  the  fields  only  a  decade  ago. 

Pierre  shrugged  his  shoulders  when  asked  a 
question  concerning  these  now  pre -historic  cos- 
tumes. 

"  Ah  !  mademoiselle,  you  must  see  for  yourself, 
that  the  peasant  who  doesn't  despise  himself 
dresses  now  in  the  fields  as  he  would  in  Paris." 


THREE  NORMANDY  INNS.  159 

As  if  in  confirmation  of  Pierre's  news  of  the 
fashions,  there  stepped  forth  from  an  avenue  of 
trees,  fringing  a  near  farm-house,  a  wedding-party. 
The  bride  was  in  the  traditional  white  of  brides ; 
the  little  cortege  following  the  ti'aii  of  her  white 
gown,  was  di'essed  in  costumes  modelled  on  Bon 
Marche  styles.  The  coarse  peasant  faces  flamed 
from  bonnets  more  flowery  than  the  fields  into 
which  they  were  passing-.  The  men  seemed 
choked  in  their  high  collars :  the  agony  of  new 
boots  was  written  on  faces  not  used  to  concealing 
such  form  of  torture.  Even  the  groom  was  sufter- 
ing- ;  his  bliss  was  something  the  gay  little  bride 
hanging  on  his  arm  must  take  entirely  for  granted. 
It  was  enough  greatness  for  the  moment  to  wear 
broadcloth  and  a  white  vest  in  the  face  of  men. 

"  Laissez,  laissez.  Marguerite,  it  is  clean  here;  it 
will  look  fine  on  the  g-reen !  "  cried  the  bride  to  an 
improvised  train-bearer,  who  had  been  holding  up 
the  white  alpaca.  Then  the  full  splendor  of  the 
bridal  skirt  trailed  across  the  freshly  mown  g-rasses. 
An  irrepressible  murmur  of  admiration  welled  up 
from  the  wedding  guests ;  even  Pierre  made  part 
of  the  chorus.  The  bridegroom  stopped  to  mop 
his  face,  and  to  look  forth  i3roudly,  through  start- 
ing ej^eballs,  on  the  splendor  of  his  possessions. 

"Ah!  Lizette,  thou  art  pretty  like  that,  thou 
knowest.     Faut  t'emhrasser,  tu  sais." 

He  gave  her  a  kiss  full  on  the  lips.  The  little 
bride  returned  the  kiss  with  unabashed  fervor. 
Then  she  burst  into  a  loud  fit  of  laughter. 

"  How  silly  you  look,  Jean,  with  your  collar 
burst  open." 


160  THREE  NORMANDY  INNS. 

The  groom's  enthusiasm  had  been  too  much  for 
his  toilet  ;  the  noon  sun  and  the  excitements  of 
the  marriage  service  had  dealt  hardly  with  his 
celluloid  fastenings.  All  the  wedding  cortege 
rushed  to  the  rescue.  Pins,  shouts  of  advice, 
pieces  of  twine,  rubber  fastenings,  even  knives, 
were  offered  to  the  now  exploding  bridegroom ; 
everyone  was  helping  him  repair  the  ravages 
of  his  moment  of  bliss ;  everyone  excepting  the 
bride.  She  sat  down  upon  her  train  and  wept 
from  i^ure  rapture  of  laughter. 

Pierre  shook  his  head  gravely,  as  he  whipped 
u^D  his  steed. 

"  Jean  will  rei^ent  it :  he'll  lose  worse  things 
than  a  button,  with  Lizette.  A  woman  who  laughs 
like  that  on  the  threshold  of  marriage  will  cry 
before  the  cradle  is  rocked,  and  will  make  others 
weep.  HoAvever,  Jean  won't  be  thinking  of  that — 
to-night." 

"  AVhere  are  they  going — along  the  highroad  ? " 

"  Only  a  short  distance.  They  turn  in  there," 
and  he  pointed  with  his  whip  to  a  near  lane ;  "  they 
go  to  the  farm-house  now — for  the  wedding  din- 
ner. Ah !  there'll  be  some  heavy  heads  to-mor- 
row. For  you  know,  a  Norman  peasant  only 
really  eats  and  drinks  well  twice  in  his  life — when 
he  marries  himself  and  when  his  daughter  mar- 
ries. Lizette's  father  is  rich — the  meat  and  the 
wines  will  be  good  to-night." 

Our  coachman  sighed,  as  if  the  thought  of  the 
excellence  of  the  coming  banquet  had  disturbed 
his  own  dig-estion. 


CHAPTEK  XV. 

GUILLATOEE-LE-CONQUERANT. 

The  wedding-  party  was  lost  in  a  thicket. 
Pierre  gave  his  whij^  so  resounding-  a 
snap,  it  was  no  sur]3rise  to  find  ourselves 
rolling-  over  the  cobbles  of  a  villag-e 
street. 

"  This  is  Dives,  mesdames,  this  is  the  inn !  " 
Pierre  drew  up,  as  he  spoke,  before  a  long,  low 
facade. 

Now,  no  one,  I  take  it,  in  this  world  enjoys  be- 
ing- duped.  Surely  disajDpointment  is  only  a  civil 
term  for  the  varying-  degrees  of  fraud  practised 
on  the  imagination.  This  inn,  apparently,  was  to 
be  classed  among  such  frauds.  It  did  not  in  the 
least,  externally  at  least,  fulfil  Eenard's  promises. 
He  had  told  us  to  expect  the  marvellous  and  the 
mediaeval  in  their  most  approved  period.  Yet 
here  Ave  were,  facing  a  featureless  exterior  !  The 
facade  was  built  yesterday — that  was  writ  large, 
all  over  the  low,  rambling  structure.  One  end, 
it  is  true,  had  a  gabled  end ;  there  was  also  an 
old  shrine  niched  in  glass  beneath  the  gable,  and 
a  low  Norman  gateway  with  rude  letters  carved 
over  the  arch.  June  was  in  its  glory,  and  the 
barrenness  of  the  commonplace  structure  was 
mercifully  hidden  by  a  wreath  of  pink  and  amber 


162  THREE  NORMANDY  INNS. 

loses.  But  one  scarcely  diives  twenty  miles  in 
the  sun  to  look  upon  a  facade  of  roses  ! 

Chat  noir,  meamvliile,  was  becoming  restless. 
Pierre  had  managed  to  keep  his  own  patience 
well  in  hand.     Now,  however,  he  broke  forth  : 

"  Shall  we  enter,  my  ladies  ?  " 

Pierre  di'ove  us  straight  into  paradise ;  for 
here,  at  last,  within  the  courtyard,  was  the  inn  we 
had  come  to  seek. 

A  group  of  low-gabled  buildings  surrounded  an 
open  court.  All  of  the  buildings  were  timbered, 
the  diagonal  beams  of  oak  so  old  they  were  black 
in  the  sun,  and  the  snowy  whiteness  of  fresh  plas- 
ter made  them  seem  blacker  still.  The  gabled 
roofs  Avere  of  varying  tones  and  tints  ;  some  were 
red,  some  mossy  green,  some  as  gray  as  the  skin 
of  a  mouse ;  all  were  deeply,  plentifully  fur- 
rowed with  the  washings  of  countless  rains,  and 
they  were  bearded  with  moss.  There  w^ere  out- 
side galleries,  beginning  somewhere  and  ending 
anywhere.  There  were  open  and  covered  outer 
stairways  so  laden  with  vines  they  could  scarce 
totter  to  the  low  heights  of  the  chamber  doors  on 
which  they  opened ;  and  there  were  open  sheds 
where  huge  farm-wagons  were  rolled  close  to  the 
most  modern  of  Parisian  dog-carts.  That  not  a 
note  of  contrast  might  be  lacking,  across  the  court- 
yard, in  one  of  the  windows  beneath  a  stairway, 
there  flashed  the  gleam  of  some  rich  stained  glass, 
spots  of  color  that  were  repeated,  with  quite  a  dif- 
ferent lustre,  in  the  dapj^led  haunches  of  rows  of 
sturdy  Percherons  munching  their  meal  in  the 
adjacent  stalls.     Add  to  such  an  ensemble  a  va- 


THREE  NORMANDY  INNS.  163 

grant  multitude  of  rose,  honeysuckle,  clematis, 
and  wistaria  vines,  all  blooming-  in  full  rivalry  of 
perfume  and  color ;  insert  in  some  of  the  corners 
and  beneath  some  of  the  older  casements  archseic 
bits  of  sculpture — strange  barbaric  features  with 
beards  of  Assyrian  correctness  and  forms  clad  in 
the  rig-id  draperies  of  the  early  Jumieg-es  period 
of  the  sculptor's  art ;  lance  above  the  roof-ridges 
the  quaint  polj^chrome  finials  of  the  earlier  Pa- 
lissy  models  ;  and  trowel  the  rough  cobble-paved 
courtyard  with  a  rare  and  distinguished  assem- 
blage of  flamingoes,  peacocks,  herons,  cockatoos 
swinging*  from  gabled  windows,  and  game-cocks 
that  strut  about  in  company  with  pink  doves — 
and  you  have  the  famous  inn  of  Guillaume  le  Con- 
querant ! 

Meanwhile  an  individual,  with  fine  deep-gray 
eyes,  and  a  face  grave,  yet  kindly,  over  which  a 
smile  was  humorously  breaking,  was  patiently 
waiting  at  our  carriage  door.  He  could  be  no 
other  than  Monsieur  Paul,  owner  and  inn-keeper, 
also  artist,  sculptor,  carver,  restorer,  to  whom,  in 
truth,  this  miracle  of  an  inn  owed  its  present  per- 
fection and  picturesqueness. 

"  We  have  been  long  expecting  you,  mesdames," 
Monsieur  Paxil's  grave  voice  was  saying.  "  Mon- 
sieur Penard  had  written  to  announce  your  com- 
ing. You  took  the  trouble  to  drive  along  the 
coast  this  fine  day  ?  It  is  idyllically  lovely,  is  it 
not — under  such  a  sun  "?  " 

Evidently  the  moment  of  enchantment  was  not 
to  be  broken  by  the  worker  of  the  spell.  Mon- 
sieur Paul  and  his  inn  were   one ;  if  one  was  a 


[64  THREE  NORMANDY  INNS. 

poem  the  other  was  a  j)oet.  The  poet  was  also 
lined  with  the  man  of  the  practical  moment.  He 
had  quickly  summoned  a  host  of  serving-people  to 
take  charge  of  us  and  our  luggag-e. 

"  Lizette,  show  these  ladies  to  the  room  of 
Madame  de  Sevigne.  If  they  desire  a  sitting- 
room — to  the  Marmousets." 

The  inn-keei3er  gave  his  commands  in  the  quiet, 
well-bred  tone  of  a  man  of  the  world,  to  a  woman 
in  peasant's  dress.  She  led  us  past  the  open  court 
to  an  inner  one,  where  we  were  confronted  with  a 
building  still  older,  apparently,  than  those  grouped 
about  the  outer  quadrangle.  The  j^easant  passed 
quickly  beneath  an  overhanging  gallery,  draped  in 
vines.  She  was  next  preceding  us  up  a  spiral  turret 
stairway ;  the  adjacent  walls  were  hung  here  and 
there  with  faded  bits  of  tapestry.  Once  more  she 
turned  to  lead  us  along  an  open  gallery ;  on  this 
several  rooms  appeared  to  oi)en.  On  each  door  a 
different  sign  was  painted  in  rude  Gothic  letters. 
The  first  was  "  Chambre  de  1'  Officier ;  "  the  second, 
"  Chambre  du  Cure,"  and  the  next  was  flung  widely 
open.  It  was  the  room  of  the  famous  lady  of  the 
incomparable  Letters.  The  room  might  have  been 
left — in  the  yesterday  of  two  centuries — by  the 
lady  whose  name  it  bore.  There  was  a  beautiful 
Seventeenth  centur}'^  bedstead,  a  couple  of  wide 
arm-chairs,  with  down  pillows  for  seats,  and  a 
clothes  press  with  the  carvings  and  brass  work  pe- 
culiar to  the  eiDOch  of  Louis  XIY.  The  chintz 
hangings  and  draperies  were  in  keeping,  being 
coiDies  of  the  brocades  of  that  day.  There  Avere  por- 
traits in  miniature  of  the  courtiers  and  the  ladies 


THREE  NORMANDY  INNS.  1G5 

of  the  Great  Reig-ii  on  the  verv  ewers  and  basins. 
On  the  flounced  dressinq-talile,  with  its  antique 
glass  and  a  diminutive  patch-box,  now  the  recep- 
tacle of  Lubin's  powder,  a  sprig  of  the  lovely  Rose 
The  was  exhaling  a  faint,  far-away  century  perfume. 
It  was  surely  a  stage  set  for  a  real  comed}' ;  some 
of  these  high-coiffed  ladies,  who  knows  ?  perhaps 
Madame  de  Sevigne  herself  would  come  to  life,and 
give  to  the  room  the  only  thing  it  lacked — the  liv- 
ing presence  of  that  old  world  grace  and  siieech. 

Presently,  we  sallied  forth  on  a  further  voyage 
of  discovery.  We  had  reached  the  courtj^ard  when 
Monsieur  Paul  crossed  it :  it  was  to  ask  if,  while 
waiting  for  the  noon  breakfast,  Ave  would  care  to 
see  the  kitchen ;  it  was,  perhai^s,  different  to  those 
now  commonly  seen  in  modern  taverns. 

The  kitchen  which  was  thus  modestly  described 
as  unlike  those  of  our  own  century  might  easily, 
except  for  the  appetizing  smell  of  the  cooking 
fowls  and  the  meats,  have  been  put  under  lock  and 
key  and  turned  over  to  a  care-taker  as  a  full-fledged 
culinary  museum  of  antiquities.  One  entire  side 
of  the  crowded  but  orderly  little  room  was  taken  up 
by  a  huge  open  fireplace.  The  logs  resting  on  the 
great  andirons  were  the  trunks  of  full-grown 
trees.  On  two  of  the  spits  were  long  rows  of  fowl 
and  legs  of  mutton  roasting :  the  great  chains  were 
being  slowly  turned  by  a  chef  in  the  paper  cap  of 
his  profession.  In  deep  burnished  brass  bowls  lay 
water-cresses :  in  Caen  dishes  of  an  age  to  make  a 
bric-a-brac  collector  turn  green  with  envy,  a  Bear- 
naise  sauce  was  being  beaten  by  another  gallic  mas- 
ter-hand.   Along  the  beams  hung  old  Rouen  plates 


166  THREE  NORMANDY  INNS. 

and  platters ;  in  the  numberless  carved  Normandy 
cupboards  gleamed  rare  bits  of  Delft  and  Limoges  : 
the  walls  may  be  said  to  have  been  hung  with  Nor- 
mandy brasses,  each  as  bui-nished  as  a  jewel.  The 
tioor  was  sanded  and  the  tables  had  attained  that 
satiny  finish  which  comes  only  with  long  usage 
and  tireless  use  of  the  brush.  There  was  also  a 
shrine  and  a  clock,  the  latter  of  antique  Norman 
make  and  design. 

The  smell  of  the  roasting  fowls  and  the  herbs 
used  by  the  maker  of  the  sauces,  a  hungry  palate 
found  even  more  exciting  than  this  most  original 
of  kitchens.  There  was  a  wine  that  went  with  the 
sauce ;  this  fact  Monsieur  Paul  explained,  on  our 
sitting  down  to  the  noonday  meal ;  one  which,  in 
remembrance  of  Monsieur  Renard's  injunctions, 
he  would  suggest  our  trying.  He  crossed  the 
courtyard  and  disappeared  into  the  bowels  of  the 
earth,  beneath  one  of  the  inn  buildings,  to  bring 
forth  a  bottle  incrusted  with  layers  of  moist  dirt. 
This  Sauterne  was  by  some,  Monsieur  Paul  smil- 
ingly explained,  considered  as  among  the  real 
treasures  of  the  inn.  Both  it  and  the  sauce,  we 
were  enabled  to  assure  him  a  moment  later,  had 
that  golden  softness  which  make  French  wines 
and  French  sauces  at  their  best  the  rapture  of  the 
palate. 

In  the  courtyard,  as  our  breakfast  proceeded,  a 
variety  of  incidents  was  happening.  We  were 
facing  the  open  archway  ;  through  it  one  looked 
out  upon  the  high-road.  A  wheelbarrow  passed, 
trundled  by  a  peasant-girl :  the  barrow  stopped, 
the  girl  leaving  it  for  an  instant  to  cross  the  court. 


THREE  NORMANDY  INNS.  167 

"  Bojijour,  mhx " 

"  Bonjour,  mafille — it  goes  well  ?  "  a  deep  gnttural 
voice  responded,  just  outside  of  the  window. 

"  Jusfemenf — I  came  to  tell  you  the  mare  has 
foaled  and  Jean  will  be  late  to-night." 

"  Bien." 

"And  Barbarine  is  still  angry " 

"  Make  up  with  her,  my  child — anger  is  an  evil 
bird  to  take  to  one's  heart,"  the  deeia  voice  went 
on. 

"It  is  my  mother,"  explained  Monsieur  Paul. 
"  It  is  her  favorite  seat,  out  yonder,  on  the  green 
bench  in  the  courtyard.  I  call  it  her  judge's 
bench,"  he  smiled,  indulgently^  as  he  went  on. 
"  She  dispenses  justice  with  more  authority  than 
anjr  other  magistrate  in  town.  I  am  Mayor,  as  it 
happens,  just  now ;  but  madame  my  mother  is  far 
above  me,  in  real  power.  She  rules  the  town  and 
the  country  about,  for  miles.  Everyone  comes  to 
her  sooner  or  later  for  counsel  and  command.  You 
will  soon  see  for  yourselves." 

A  murmur  of  assent  from  all  the  table  accom- 
panied Monsieur  Paul's  prophecy. 

"  Feinine  vraiment  remarquahle"  hoarsely  whis- 
pered a  stout  breakfaster,  behind  his  napkin,  be- 
tween two  spoonsful  of  his  soup. 

"  Not  two  in  a  century  like  her,"  said  my  neigh- 
bor. 

"No — nor  two  in  all  France — nonjylus"  retorted 
the  stout  man. 

"  She  could  rule  a  kingdom — hey,  Paul "?  " 

"  She  rules  me — as  you  see — and  a  man  is  harder 
to  govern  than  a  province,  they  say,"  smiled  Mon- 


168  THREE  NORMANDY  INNS. 

sieur  Paul  with  a  humorous  relish,  obviouslj^  the 
otispriug-  of  experience.  "  In  France,  mesdames," 
he  added,  a  sweeter  look  of  feeling-  coming  into 
the  deep  eyes,  "  you  see  we  are  always  children — 
toujours  enfanfs — as  long  as  the  mother  lives.  AYe 
are  never  really  old  till  she  dies.  May  the  good 
God  preserve  her ! "  and  he  lifted  his  glass  tow- 
ard the  green  bench.  The  table  drank  the  toast, 
in  silence. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 


THE   GEEEN   BENCH. 


In  the  course  of  the  first  few  days 
we  learned  what  all  Dives  had 
known  for  the  past  fifty  years 
or  so — that  the  focal  point  of 
interest  in  the  inn  was  cen- 
tred in  Madame  Le  Mois.  She 
drew  us,  as  she  had  the  country 
around  for  miles,  to  circle  close 
about  her  g-reen  bench. 

The  bench  was  placed  at  the 
best  possible  point  for  one  who,  between  dawn 
and  darkness,  made  it  the  business  of  her  life  to 
keep  her  eye  on  her  world.  Not  the  tiniest 
mouse  nor  the  most  spectral  shade  could  enter  or 
slip  away  beneath  the  open  archway  without  un- 


S0 


170  THREE  NORMANDY  INNS. 

derg-oing'  inspection  from  that  omniscient  eye,  that 
seemed  never  to  blink  nor  to  grow  weary.  This 
same  eye  conkl  keep  its  watch,  also,  over  the  entire 
establishment,  with  no  need  of  the  huge  body  to 
which  it  was  attached  mcjving  a  hair's-breadth. 
Was  it  Nitouche,  the  head-cook,  who  was  g-rum- 
bling  because  the  kitchen-wench  had  not  scoured 
the  brass  saucej)ans  to  the  last  point  of  mirrory 
brightness?  Behold  both  Nitouche  and  the  trem- 
bling peasant-girl,  tog-ether  Avith  the  brasses  as 
evidence,  all  could  be  brought  at  an  instant's  call, 
into  the  open  court.  Were  the  maids — were  Ma^ 
rianne  or  Lizette  neg-lecting*  their  work  to  Hirt 
with  the  coachmen  in  the  sheds  yonder  ? 

"AJIons,  mes  Jillen — douceineni,  Ui-has — et  vos  I  its? 
qui  lesfaif — k's  hons  saints  du  jiaradis,  peut-etre?  " 
And  Marianne  and  Lizette  would  slink  away  to  the 
waiting  beds.  Nothing-  escaped  this  eye.  If  the 
poule  sultane  was  gone  lame,  limping  in  the  inner 
quadrangle,  madame's  eye  saw  the  trouble — a 
thorn  in  the  left  claw,  before  the  feathered  cripple 
had  had  time  to  reach  her  objective  point,  her 
mistress's  capacious  lap,  and  the  healing  touch  of 
her  skilful  surgeon's  fingers.  Neither  were  the 
cockatoes  nor  the  white  parrots  given  license  to 
make  all  the  noise  in  the  coui-t-yard.  When 
madame  had  an  unusually  loquacious  moment, 
these  more  strictly  professional  conversationists 
were  taught  their  place. 

"  JS'hen,  foi — and  thou  wishest  to  proclaim  to  the 
world  what  a  gymnast  thou  art — swinging  on  thy 
perch  ?  Quietly,  quietly,  there  are  also  others 
who  wish  to  praise  themselves !     And  now,  my 


THREE  NORMANDY  INNS.  171 

child,  you  were  telling"  me  how  good  you  had 
been  to  your  old  grandmother,  and  how  she  scolded 
you.  Well,  and  how  about  obedience  to  our  par- 
ents, Jiein — how  about  that  ? "  This,  as  the  old 
face  bent  to  the  maiden  beside  her. 

There  was  one,  assuredly,  who  had  not  failed 
in  his  duty  to  his  parents.  Monsieur  Paul's 
whole  life,  as  we  learned  later,  had  been  a  willing- 
sacrifice  to  the  unconscious  tyranny  of  his  moth- 
er's affection.  The  son  was  gifted  with  those  gifts 
which,  in  a  Parisian  atelier,  would  easily  have  made 
him  successful,  if  not  famous.  He  had  the  artis- 
tic endowment  in  an  unusual  degree ;  it  was  all 
one  to  him,  whether  he  modelled  in  clay,  or  carved 
in  wood,  or  stone,  or  built  a  house,  or  restored  old 
bric-a-brac.  He  had  inherited  the  old  world  round- 
ness of  artistic  ability — his  was  the  plastic  renas- 
cent touch  that  might  have  developed  into  that  of 
a  Giotto  or  a  Benvenuto. 

It  was  such  a  sacrifice  as  this  that  he  had  lain 
at  his  mother's  feet. 

Think  you  for  an  instant  the  clever,  witty,  canny 
woman  in  Madame  Le  Mois  looked  upon  her  son's 
renouncing  the  world  of  Paris,  and  holding  to  the 
glories  of  Dives  and  their  famous  inn  in  the  light 
of  a  sacrifice  ?  "  Parbleic  !  "  she  would  explode, 
when  the  subject  was  touched  on,  "  it  was  a  lucky 
thing  for  him  that  Paul  had  had  an  old  mother  to 
keep  him  from  burning  his  fingers.  Paris !  What 
did  the  i^rovinces  want  with  Paris  ?  Paris  had 
need  enough  of  them,  the  great,  idle,  shiftless,  dis- 
siioated,  cruel  old  city,  that  ground  all  their  sons 
to  powder,  and  then  scattered  their  ashes  abroad 


172  THREE  NORMANDY  INNS. 

like  so  many  cinders.  Oh,  yes,  Paris  couldn't  get 
along-  without  the  provinces,  to  plunder  and  rob, 
to  seduce  their  sous  away  from  living-  good,  pure 
lives,  and  to  suck  these  lives  as  a  pig  would  a 
trough  of  fresh  water  !  But  the  provinces,  if  they 
valued  their  souls,  shunned  Paris  as  they  would  the 
devil.  And  as  for  artists — when  it  came  to  the 
young  of  the  provinces,  Avho  thought  they  could 

paint  or  model 

"  Tenez,  madame — this  is  what  Paris  does  for  our 
young.  My  neighbor  3'onder,"  and  she  pointed, 
as  only  Frenchwomen  point,  sticking  her  thumb 
into  the  air  to  designate  a  point  back  of  her 
bench,  "my  neighbor  had  a  son  like  Paul.  He 
too  was  always  niggling  at  something.  He  nig- 
gled so  well  a  rich  cousin  sent  him  up  to  Paris. 
Well,  in  ten  years  he  comes  back,  famous,  rich, 
too,  with  a  wife  and  even  a  child.  The  establish- 
ment is  complete.  AVell,  they  come  here  to  break- 
fast one  fine  morning,  with  his  mother,  whom  he 
put  at  a  side  table,  with  his  nurse — he  is  ashamed 
of  his  mother,  you  see.  Well,  then  his  wife  talks 
and  I  hear  her.  '  Mais,  mon  Chai^les,  c'esf  foi  qui 
est  lephisfameux — il  n'y  a  que  toi  !  Tu  es  un  dieu, 
tu  sais — il  n'y  a  pas  deux  comme  toi  ! '  The  fa- 
mous one  deigns  to  smile  then,  and  to  eat  of  his 
breakfast.  His  digestion  had  gone  wrong,  it  ap- 
pears. The  Figaro  had  placed  his  name  second 
on  a  certain  list,  after  a  rival's !  He  alone  must  be 
great — there  must  not  be  another  god  of  painting 
save  him  !  He  !  He  !  that's  fine,  that's  greatness 
— to  lose  one's  appetite  because  another  is  praised, 
and  to  be  ashamed  of  one's  old  mother !  " 


THREE  NORMANDY  INNS.  173 

Madame  Le  Mois's  face,  for  a  moment,  was  terri- 
ble to  look  upon.  Even  in  her  kindliest  moments 
liers  was  a  severe  countenance,  in  spite  of  the  true 
Norman  curves  in  mouth  and  nostril — the  laugh- 
ter-loving" curves.  Presently,  however,  the  fierce- 
ness of  her  severity  melted ;  she  had  caught  sight 
of  her  son.  He  was  passing  her,  now,  with  the 
wine  bottles  for  dinner  piled  up  in  his  arms. 

"  You  see,"  croaked  the  mother,  in  an  exultant 
whisper,  "  I've  saved  him  from  all  that — he's  hap- 
py, for  he  still  works.  In  the  winter  he  can  amuse 
himself,  when  he  likes,  with  his  carving  and  paint- 
brushes. Ah,  tiens,  du  monde  qui  arrive  !  "  And 
the  old  woman  seated  herself,  with  an  air  of  great 
dignity,  to  receive  the  new-comers. 

The  world  that  came  in  under  the  low  archway 
was  of  an  altogether  different  character  from  any 
we  had  as  yet  seen.  In  a  satin-lined  victoria,  amid 
the  cushions,  lay  a  j^oung  and  lovely-eyed  Anonyma. 
Seated  beside  her  was  a  weak -featured  man,  Avith  a 
huge  flower  decorating  his  coat  lappel.  This  lat- 
ter individual  divided  the  seat  with  an  army  of 
small  dogs  who  leaped  forth  as  the  carriage 
stopped. 

Madame  Le  Mois  remained  immovable  on  her 
bench.  Her  face  was  as  enigmatic  as  her  voice,  as 
it  gave  Suzette  the  order  to  show  the  lady  to  the 
salon  bleu.  The  high  Louis  XV.  slipper,  as  it 
picked  its  way  carefully  after  Suzette,  never 
seemed  more  distinctly  astray  than  when  its  fair 
wearer  confided  her  safety  to  the  insecure  footing 
of  the  rough,  uneven  cobbles.  In  a  brief  half -hour 
the  frou-frou  of  her  silken  skirts  was  once  more 


174  THREE  NORMANDY  INNS. 

sweeping'  the  court-yard.  She  and  her  companion 
and  the  dogs  chose  the  open  air  and  a  tent  of  sky 
for  their  banqueting'  -  hall.  Soon  all  "were  seated 
at  one  of  the  many  tables  placed  near  the  kitchen, 
beneath  the  rose-vines. 

Madame  gave  the  j)air  a  keen,  dissecting  glance. 
Her  verdict  was  delivered  more  in  the  emphasis 
of  her  shrug  and  the  humor  of  her  broad  wink 
than  in  the  loud- whispered — "  Comme  vous  voyez, 
chere  dame,  de  touies  sortes  id,  cliez  nous — mais — 
toujour s  hon  genre  !  " 

The  laughter  of  one  who  could  not  choose  her 
world  was  stopped,  suddenly,  by  the  dipping  of 
the  thick  fingers  into  an  old  snuff-box.  That  very 
afternoon  the  court-yard  saw  another  arrival ;  this 
one  was  treated  in  quite  a  different  spirit. 

A  dog-cart  was  briskly  driven  into  the  yard  by 
a  gentleman  who  did  not  appear  to  be  in  the  best 
of  humor.  He  drew  his  horse  up  with  a  sudden 
fierceness ;  he  as  fiercely  called  out  for  the  hostler. 
Monsieur  Paul  bit  his  lip ;  but  he  composedly 
confronted  the  disturbed  countenance  perched  on 
the  driver's  seat.     The  gentleman  wished 

"  I  want  indemnity — that  is  what  I  want.  In- 
demnity for  my  horse,"  cried  out  a  thick,  coarse 
voice,  with  insolent  authority. 

"  For  your  horse  ?  I  do  not  think  I  under- 
stand  " 

"  O — h,  I  jsresume  not,"  retorted  the  man,  still 
more  insolently ;  "  jjeople  don't  usually  understand 
when  they  have  to  pay.  I  came  here  a  week  ago, 
and  stayed  two  daj^s  ;  and  you  starved  my  horse — 
and  he  died — that  is  what  hap^aened — he  died ! " 


THREE  NORMANDY  INNS.  175 

The  whole  court-yard  now  rang  with  the  cries  of 
the  assembled  household.  The  high,  angry  tones 
had  called  together  the  last  serving-man  and  scul- 
lery-maid; the  cooks  had  come  out  from  their 
kitchens;  they  were  brandishing  their  long-han- 
dled saucepans.  The  iDeasant-women  were  shriek- 
ing in  concert  with  the  hostlers,  who  were  raising 
their  arms  to  heaven  in  i^roof  of  their  innocence. 
Dogs,  cats,  cockatoos  swinging  on  their  perches, 
peacocks,  parrots,  pelicans,  and  every  one  of  the 
cocks  swarmed  from  the  barnyards  and  garden 
and  cellars,  to  add  their  shrill  cries  and  shrieks 
to  the  universal  babel. 

Meanwhile,  calm  and  unruffled  as  a  Hindoo  god- 
dess, and  strikingly  similar  in  general  massiveness 
of  structure  and  proportion  to  the  common  repro- 
duction of  such  deities,  sat  Madame  Le  Mois. 
She  went  on  with  her  usual  occupation ;  she  was 
dipping  fresh-cut  salad  leaves  into  great  bowls  of 
water  as  quietly  as  if  only  her  own  little  family 
were  assembled  before  her.  Once  only  she  lifted 
her  heavily -moulded,  sagacious  eyebrow  at  the 
irate  dog-cart  driver,  as  if  to  measure  his  pitiful 
strength.  She  allowed  the  fellow,  however,  to 
touch  the  point  of  abuse  before  she  crushed  him. 

Her  first  sentence  reduced  him  to  the  ignominy 
of  silence.  All  her  people  were  also  silent.  What, 
the  deep  sarcastic  voice  chanted  on  the  still  air — 
Avhat,  this  gentleman's  horse  had  died — and  yet 
he  had  waited  a  whole  week  to  tell  them  of  the 
great  news  %  He  was,  of  a  truth,  altogether  too 
considerate.  His  own  memory,  perhaps,  was  also 
a  short  one,  since  it  told  him  nothing  of  the  con- 


176  THREE  NORMANDY  INNS. 

ditiou  in  wliicli  tlie  i300i'  beast  had  arrived,  drop- 
ping- with  fatigrie,  wet  with  sweat,  his  mouth  all 
blood,  and  an  eye  as  of  one  who  already  was  past 
the  consciousness  of  his  suffering'  ?  Ah  no,  mon- 
sieur should  go  to  those  who  also  had  short  mem- 
ories. 

"  For  we  use  our  eyes — we  do.  We  are  used  to 
deal  with  g-entlemen — with  Christians  '  (the  He- 
brew nose  of  the  owner  of  the  dead  horse,  even 
more  plainly  abused  the  privilege  of  its  pedigree 
in  pi'oving  its  race,  by  turning  downward,  at  this 
onslaught  of  the  mere's  satire),  "  as  I  said,  with 
Christians,"  continued  the  mere,  pitilessly.  "  And 
do  those  gentlemen  complain  and  put  upon  us  the 
death  of  their  liorses  ?  No,  my  fine  sir,  they  re- 
turn— ih  revieimenf,  et  sont  reueuus  depuis  la  Con- 
quete  ! '" 

With  this  fine  climax  madame  announced  the 
court  as  closed.  She  bowed  disdainfulh',  with  a 
grand  and  magisterial  air,  to  the  defeated  claim- 
ant, who  crept  away,  sulkily,  through  the  low 
archway. 

"  That  is  the  way  to  deal  with  such  vermin, 
Paul ;  whip  them,  and  they  turn  tail."  And  the 
mere  shook  out  a  great  laugh  from  her  broad 
bosom,  as  she  regaled  her  wide  nostrils  with  a 
fresh  j)inch  of  snuff.  The  assembled  household 
echoed  the  laugh,  seasoning"  it  with  the  glee  of 
scorn,  as  each  went  to  his  allotted  place. 


CHAPTER  XVn. 

THE   \YOELD   THAT   CA]\IE    TO   DITES. 

It  was  a  world  of  many 
mixtures,  of  y  a  r  i  o  u  s 
ranks  and  liabits  of  life 
that  found  its  way  under 
the  old  arcliway,  and  sat 
do^vn  at  the  table  d'hote 
breakfasts  and  dinners. 
Madame  and  her  g-ifted 
son  were  far  too  clever 
to  attempt  to  play  the 
mistaken  part  of  Provi- 
dence; there  w^as  no 
pointed  assortment  made  of  the  sheep  and  the 
goats ;  at  least,  not  in  a  way  to  suggest  the  most 
remote  intention  of  any  such  separation  being  pre- 
meditated. Such  separation  as  there  was  came 
about  in  the  most  natural  and  in  the  pleasantest 
possible  fashion.  When  Petitjean,  the  pedler,  and 
his  wife  drove  in  under  the  Gothic  sign,  the  huge 
lumbering  vehicle  was  as  quickly  surrounded  as 
when  any  of  the  neighboring  notabilities  arrived 
in  emblazoned  chariots.  Madame  was  the  first  to 
waddle  forward,  nodding  up  toward  the  open  hood 
as,  with  a  short,  brisk,  business  "  Bonj<mr,"  she  wel- 
comed the  head  of  Petitjean  and  his  sharjD-eyed 
spouse  looking  over  the  aprons. 


178  THREE  NORMANDY  INNS. 

The  pedler  is  always  popular  with  his  world ; 
and  Dives  knew  Petit  jean  to  be  as  honest  as  a 
pedler  can  ever  hope  to  be  in  a  world  where  small 
pence  are  only  made  large  by  some  one  being  sac- 
rificed on  the  altar  of  duplicity.  Therefore  it  was 
that  Petit] cans  hearse-like  cart  was  always  a  wel- 
come visitor ; — one  could  at  least  be  as  sure  of  a 
just  return  for  one's  money  in  trading-  with  a  ped- 
ler as  from  any  other  source  in  this  thieving 
world.  In  the  end,  one  always  got  something  else 
besides  the  bargain  to  carry  away  with  one.  For 
Petit  jean  knew  all  the  gossip  of  the  province ;  after 
dinner,  when  the  stiff  cider  was  working  in  his 
veins,  he  Avould  be  certain  to  tell  all  one  wanted  to 
know.  Even  Madame  Le  Mois,  whose  days  were 
too  busy  in  summer  to  include  the  daily  reading 
of  her  newspaper,  had  grown  dependent,  in  these 
her  later  years,  on  such  sources  of  information  as 
the  laedler's  garrulous  tongue  supplied.  In  the 
end  she  had  found  his  talent  for  fiction  quite  as 
reliable  as  that  of  the  journalists,  besides  being 
infinitel}^  more  entertaining,  abounding  in  person- 
alities which  were  the  more  racy,  as  the  jjedler  felt 
himself  to  be  exempt  from  that  curse  of  responsi- 
bility, which,  in  French  journalism,  is  so  often  a 
barrier  to  the  full  play  of  one's  talent. 

Therefore  it  was  that  Petit  jean  and  his  bright- 
eyed  spouse  were  always  made  welcome  at  Dives. 

"  It  goes  well,  Madame  Jean  1  Ah,  there  you 
are.  Well,  Jiein,  also  ?  It  is  long  since  we  saw 
you." 

"  Ah,  madame,  centuries,  it  is  centuries  since  we 
were  here.     But  what  will  you  have  ?  with  the  bad 


THREE  NORMANDY  INNS.  179 

season,  the  rains,  the  banks  failing-,  the — but  you, 
maclame,  are  well  ?     And  Monsieur  Paul  ?  " 

"All,  c.a  va  tout  doucement — Paul  is  well,  the  good 
God  be  praised,  but  I — I  perish  day  by  day " 

At  which  the  entire  court-yard  was  certain  to 
burst  into  laughing  protest.  For  the  whole  house- 
hold of  Guillaume  le  Conquerant  was  quite  sure  to 
be  assembled  about  the  great  wheels  of  the  ped- 
ler's  wagon — only  to  look,  not  to  buy,  not  yet. 
Petit  jean  and  his  wife  had  not  dined  yet,  and  a 
pedler's  hunger  is  something  to  be  respected — one 
made  money  by  waiting  for  the  hour  of  digestion. 
The  little  crowd  of  maids,  hostlers,  cooks,  and 
scullery  wenches,  were  only  here  to  whet  their  ap- 
petite, and  to  greet  Petit  jean.  Nitouche,  the  head 
chef,  put  a  little  extra  garlic  in  his  sauces  that  day. 
But  in  spite  of  this  compliment  to  their  palate,  the 
pedler  and  his  wife  dined  in  the  smaller  room  off 
the  kitchen ; — Madame  was  desolated,  but  the  salle- 
d-manger  was  crowded  just  now.  One  was  really 
suffocated  in  there  these  days  !  Therefore  it  was 
that  the  two  ate  the  herbaceous  sauces  with  an 
extra  relish,  as  those  conscious  of  having  a  larger 
space  for  the  play  of  vagrant  elbows  than  their 
less  fortunate  brethren. 

The  gossip  and  trading  came  later. 

On  the  edge  of  the  fading  daylight  there  was 
still  time  to  see ;  the  chosen  articles  could  easily 
be  taken  into  the  brightly  lit  kitchen  to  be  passed 
before  the  lamps.  After  the  buying  and  bargain- 
ing came  the  talking.  All  the  household  could 
find  time  to  spend  the  evening  on  the  old  benches ; 
these  latter  lined  the  sidewalk  just  beneath  the  low 


180  THREE  IfORMANDY  INNS. 

kitclien  casements.     They  had  been  here  for  many 
a  long"  year. 

AVhat  a  history  of  Dives  these  old  benches  could 
have  told !  What  troopers,  and  beg-g-ars,  and 
cowled  monks,  and  wayfarers  had  sat  there  ! — each 
sitter  helping  to  wear  away  the  wood  till  it  had 
come  to  have  the  depressions  of  a  drinking--trough. 
Nig-ht  after  nig-ht  in  the  long-  centuries,  as  the  dark- 
ness fell  upon  the  hamlet — what  tales  and  con- 
fidences, and  what  murmured  anguish  of  remorse, 
what  cries  for  help,  what  g-ay  talk  and  lig'ht  song- 
must  have  welled  up  into  the  dome  of  sky  ! 

Once,  as  we  sat  within  the  court-yard,  under  the 
stars,  a  young  voice  sang-  out.  It  was  so  still  and 
quiet  every  word  the  youth  phrased  was  as  clear 
as  his  fresh  young-  voice. 

"  Tiens — it  is  Mathieu — he  is  singing-  Les  Oreil- 
lers  ! "  cried  Monsieur  Paul,  with  an  accent  of 
pride  in  his  own  tone. 

The  young  voice  sang  on : 

"  J'arrive  en  ce  pays 
De  Basse  Normayidie, 
Vous  dire  une  chanson, 
S'il  plait  la  compagnie  !  " 

"  It  is  an  old  Norman  bridal  song,"  Monsieur 
Paul  went  on,  lowering  his  voice.  "  One  I  taught 
a  lot  of  young  boys  and  lads  last  winter — for  a 
wedding  held  here — in  the  inn." 

Still  the  fresh  notes  filled  the  air : 

"ies  amours  sont  partis 
Dans  nn  bateau  de  verre  ; 
Le  bateau  a  casse 

a  casse — 
Les  amours  sont  parterre.'^ 


THREE  NORMANDY  INNS.  181 

"How  the  old  women  langlied — and  cried — at 
once  !  It  was  years  since  they  had  heard  it — the 
old  song".  And  when  these  boys — their  sons  and 
grandsons — sang  it,  and  I  had  trained  them  well — 
they  wept  for  pure  delight." 

Again  the  song-  went  on : 


"  Ouvrez  la  porte,  ouvrez  ! 
Nouvelle  mariee, 
Car  si  vons  ne  Pouvrez 
Vous  serez  accuseeJ'^ 

"  I  dressed  all  the  yonng  girls  in  old  costumes," 
our  friend  continued,  still  in  a  whisper.  "  I  ran- 
sacked all  the  old  chests  and  closets  about  here.  I 
got  the  ladies  of  the  chateaux  near  by  to  aid  me  ; 
they  were  so  interested  that  many  came  down 
from  Paris  to  see  the  wedding'.  It  was  a  jDrettj^ 
sight,  each  in  a  different  dress !  Every  century 
since  the  thirteenth  was  represented." 

"  Attendezd  demain. 
La  fraiche  matinee, 
Quand  mon  oiseau  prive 
Aura  jyris  sa  volee  !  " 

Clear,  strong,  free  rang  the  j^ouug"  tenor's  voice 
— and  then  it  broke  into  "  Comment — tu  dis  que 
Claire  est  Id  ?  "  whereat  Monsieur  Paul  smiled. 

"  That  will  be  the  next  wedding — what  shall  I 
devise  for  that  1  That  will  also  be  the  ending  of 
a  long  lawsuit.  But  he  should  have  sung  the 
last  verse — the  prettiest  of  all.  Mathieu  !  "  Paul 
lifted  his  voice,  calling  into  the  dark. 


182  THREE  NORMANDY  INNS. 

"Old,  Ilonsieur  Paul  !  " 

"  Sing-  us  the  last  verse " 


"  Dans  se  jar  din  du  Roi 
A  pris  sn  reposee, 
Cueillant  le  romarin 
La — vande — boutnn — nee " 

The  last  notes  were  but  faint  vibrations,  coming 
from  a  lengthening"  distance. 

"  Ah ! "  and  Monsieur  Paul  breathed  a  sigh. 
"  They  don't  care  about  singing.  They  are  doing 
it  all  the  time — they  are  so  much  in  love.  The 
fathers'  lawsuit  ended  only  last  month.  They've 
waited  three  years  —  happy  Claire  —  happy  Ma- 
thieu !  " 


CHAPTEE  XVm. 


THE   CONYEESATION   OF   PATRIOTS. 


TTzy^ 


The  world  that  found  its  way  to 
the  maj'ors  table  at  this  early 
.  period  of  the  summer  season 
was  largely  composed  of  the 
class  that  travels  chiefly  to 
amuse  others.  The  commer- 
cial gentlemen  in  France,  how- 
ever, have  the  outward  bearing 
of  those  who  travel  to  amuse  themselves.  The 
selling  of  other  people's  goods — it  is  surely  as 
good  an  excuse  as  any  other  for  seeing  the  world  ! 
Such  an  occui3ation  offers  an  orator,  one  gifted 
in  conversational  talents — talents  it  would  be  a 
pitj'^  to  see  buried  in  the  domestic  napkin — a  fine 
arena  for  display. 

The  French  commercial  traveller  is  indeed  a 
genus  apart ;  he  makes  a  fetich  of  his  trade ;  he 
preaches  his  proj^aganda.  The  fat  and  the  lean, 
the  tall  and  the  little,  the  well  or  meanly  dressed 
representatives  of  the  great  French  houses  who 
sat  down  to  dine,  as  our  neighbors  or  vis-a-vis, 
night  after  night,  were,  on  the  whole,  a  great  credit 
to  their  country.  Their  manners  might  have  been 
mistaken  for  those  of  a  higher  rank;  their  gifts 


184  THREE  NORMANDY  INNS. 

as  talkers  were  of  snch  an  order  as  to  make  listen- 
ing- the  better  p.art  of  discretion. 

Dining  is  always  a  serious  act  in  France.  At 
this  inn  the  sauces  of  the  chef,  with  their  reputa- 
tion behind  them,  and  the  proof  of  their  real  ex- 
cellence before  one,  the  dinner-hour  was  elevated 
to  the  importance  of  a  ceremony.  How  the  petty 
merchants  and  the  commercial  gentlemen  ate,  at 
first  in  silence,  as  if  respecting-  the  appeal  im- 
posed by  a  great  hunger,  and  then  warming  into 
talk  as  the  acid  cider  was  j)assed  again  and  again ! 
What  crunching  of  the  sturdy,  dark-colored  bread 
between  the  great  knuckles !  Wliat  huge  helps 
of  the  famous  sauces  !  What  insatiable  aj^petites ! 
What  nice  appreciation  of  the  right  touch  of  the 
tricksy  garlic !  What  nodding  of  heads,  clinking 
of  glasses,  and  warmth  of  friendship  established 
over  the  wine-cups!  At  dessert  everyone  talked 
at  once.  On  one  occasion  the  subject  of  Gam- 
betta's  death  was  touched  on ;  all  the  table,  as  one 
man,  broke  out  into  an  effeYvescence  of  political 
babble. 

"  What  a  loss !  TMiat  a  death-blow  to  France 
was  his  death  !  "  exclaimed  a  heavy  young  man  in 
a  pink  cravat. 

"If  Gambetta  had  lived,  Alsace  and  Lorraine 
would  be  ours  now,  without  the  firing  of  a  gun !  " 
added  an  elderly  merchant  at  the  foot  of  the  table. 

"  Ah — h  !  without  the  firing  of  a  gun  they  will 
come  to  us  yet.  I  tell  you,  without  the  firing  of  a 
gun — unless  we  insist  on  a  battle,"  explosively  re- 
joined a  fiery -hued  little  man  sitting  next  to  Mon- 
sieur Paul ;  "  but  you  will  see — we  shall  insist. 


THREE  NORMANDY  INNS.  185 

There  is  between  us  and  Germany  an  inextin- 
guishable hate — and  we  must  kill,  kill,  right  and 
left!" 

"Allans — allons  !  "  protested  the  table,  in  chorus. 

"Yes,  yes,  a  general  massacre,  that  is  what  we 
want ;  that  is  what  we  must  have.  Men,  women, 
and  children — all  must  fall.  I  am  a  married  man 
— but  not  a  woman  or  a  child  shall  escape — when 
the  time  comes,"  continued  the  fiery-ej^ed  man, 
getting  more  and  more  ferocious  as  he  warmed 
with  the  thought  of  his  revenge. 

"  AMiat  a  monster !  "  broke  in  Madame  Le  Mois, 
her  deep  base  notes  unruffled  by  the  spectacle  of 
her  bloodthirsty  neighbor's  violence  :  "  you — to 
bayonet  a  woman  with  a  child  in  her  arms  !  " 

"I  would — I  would " 

"  Then  you  would  be  more  cruel  than  they  were. 
They  treated  our  women  with  respect." 

There  was  a  murmur  of  assenting  ai^i^lause,  at 
this  sentiment  of  justice,  from  the  table.  But  the 
fiery-eyed  man  was  not  to  be  put  down. 

"  Oh,  yes,  they  were  generous  enough  in  '71,  but 
I  should  remember  their  insults  of  1815 !  " 

"  Andenne  liistoire — ca,"  said  the  mere,  dismiss- 
ing the  subject,  with  a  humorous  wink  at  the 
table. 

"As  you  see,"  was  Monsieur  Patil's  comment 
on  the  conversation,  as  we  were  taking  our  after- 
dinner  stroll  in  the  garden — "  as  you  see,  that 
sort  of  person  is  the  bad  element  in  our  countr}^ — 
the  dangerous  element — unreasoning,  revengeful, 
and  ignorant.  It  is  such  men  as  he  who  still  up- 
hold  hatreds   and   kee^D    the   flame    alive.      It   is 


186  THREE  NORMANDY  INNS. 

better  to  Lave  no  talent  at  all  for  politics — to  be 
harmless  like  me,  for  instance,  whose  worst  vice  is 
to  buy  up  old  laces  and  carvings." 

"  And  roses " 

"  Yes — that  is  another  of  my  vices — to  perpetu- 
ate the  old  varieties.  They  call  me  along  our 
coast — the  millionnaire — of  roses  !  Will  you  have 
a  '  Marie  Louise,'  mademoiselle  ?  " 

The  garden  was  as  complete  in  its  old-time  aspect 
as  the  rest  of  the  inn  belongings.  Onl}^  the  older, 
rarer  varieties  of  flowers  and  rose-stalks  had  been 
chosen  to  bloom  within  the  beautifully  arranged 
inclosure.  Citronnelle,  purple  irises,  fringed  asters, 
sage,  lavender,  rose-])eche,  bachelor's-button,  the 
d'Horace,  and  the  wonderful  electric  fraxinelle, 
these  and  manj'  other  shrubs  and  plants  of  the 
older  centuries  were  massed  here  with  the  taste 
of  one  difficult  to  please  in  horticultural  arrange- 
ments. Our  after-dinner  walks  became  an  event 
in  our  day.  At  that  hour  the  press  of  the  day's 
work  was  over,  and  Madame  Mere  or  Monsieur 
Paul  were  always  ready  to  join  us  for  a  stroll. 

"  For  myself,  I  do  not  like  large  gardens,"  Mon- 
sieur Paul  remarked,  during  one  of  these  after- 
dinner  saunters.  "The  monks,  in  the  old  days, 
knew  just  the  right  size  a  garden  should  be — 
small  and  sheltered,  with  walls — like  a  strong 
arm  about  a  pretty  woman — to  protect  the  shrubs 
and  flowers.  One  should  enter  the  garden,  also, 
by  a  gate  which  must  click  as  it  closes — the  click 
tickles  the  imagination — it  is  the  sound  hence- 
forth connected  with  silence,  with  perfumes  and 
seclusion.     How  far  away  we  seem  now,  do  we 


THREE  NORMANDY  INNS.  187 

not  ? — from  the  bustle  of  the  inn  court-yard — and 
yet  I  could  throw  a  stone  into  it." 

The  only  saunterers  besides  ourselves  were  the 
flamingo,  who,  cautiously,  timorously  picked  his 
way — as  if  he  were  conscious  he  was  only  a  bunch 
of  feathers  hoisted  on  stilts ;  the  white  parrot, 
who  was  wabbling  across  the  lawn  to  a  favorite 
perch  in  the  leaves  of  a  tropical  palm  ;  and  the 
peacock,  whose  train  had  been  spread  with  a  due 
regard  to  effect  across  a  bed  of  purple  irises,  with 
a  view  to  annihilating  the  brilliancy  of  their  rival 
hues. 

The  bit  of  sky  framed  by  these  four  garden 
walls  always  seemed  more  delicate  in  tone  than 
that  which  covered  the  open  court-yard.  The 
birds  in  the  bushes  had  moments  of  melodious 
outbursts  they  did  not,  apparently,  indulge  in 
along  the  high-road.  And  what  with  the  fading 
lights,  the  stars  pricking  their  way  among  the 
palms,  the  scents  of  flowers,  and  the  talk  of  a 
poet,  it  is  little  wonder  that  this  twilight  hour  in 
the  old  garden  was  certain  to  be  the  most  lyrical 
of  the  twenty-four. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

IN  LA   CHAMBKE   DES   MAEMOUSETS. 

"  It  is  the  winters,  mesdames,  that 
are  hard  to  bear. 
The}'  are  long — 
they  are  dull.  No 
one  passes  along 
the  high-road.  It 
is  then,  when  sometimes  the  snow  is  piled  knee- 
deep  in  the  court-yard,  it  is  then  I  try  to  amuse 
myself  a  little.  Last  year  I  did  the  Jumieges 
sculptures  :  they  fit  in  well,  do  they  not  1  " 

It  was  raining ;  and  Monsieur  Paul  was  paying 
us  an  evening  call.  A  great  fire  was  burning  in 
the  beautiful  Francois  I.  fireplace  of  our  sitting- 
room,  the  famous  Chambre  des  Mai-mousets.  We 
had  not  consented  that  any  of  the  lights  should 
be  lit,  although  the  lovely  little  Louis  XIV. 
chandelier  and  the  antique  brass  sconces  were 
temptingly  filled  with  fresh  candles.  The  flames 
of  the  great  logs  would  sufier  no  rival  illumina- 
tions :  if  the  trunks  of  full-grown  trees  could  not 
suffice  to  light  up  an  old  room,  with  low-raftered 
ceilings,  and  a  mass  of  bric-a-brac,  what  could  a 
few  thin  waxen  candles  hoj^e  to  do  ? 

On  many  other  occasions  we  had  thought  our 
marvellous  sitting-room  had  had  exceptional  mo- 


THREE  NORMANDY  INNS.  189 

ments  of  beauty.  To  turn  in  from  tlie  sunlit, 
open  court-yard  ;  to  j)ass  beneath  the  vine-hung 
gallery ;  to  lift  the  great  latch  of  the  low  Gothic 
door  and  to  enter  the  rich  and  sumptuous  inte- 
rior, where  the  light  came,  as  in  cathedral  aisles, 
only  through  the  jewels  of  fourteenth  -  century 
glass ;  to  close  the  door ;  to  sit  beneath  the  pris- 
matic shower,  ensconced  in  a  nest  of  old  tapestried 
cushions,  and  to  let  the  eye  wander  over  the 
wealth  of  carvings,  of  ceramics,  of  Spanish  and 
Normandy  trousseaux  chests,  on  the  collection  of 
antique  chairs,  Dutch  porcelains,  and  priceless  em- 
broideries— all  the  riches  of  a  museum  in  a  living- 
room — such  a  moment  in  the  Marmousets  we  had 
tested  again  and  again  with  delectable  results. 
At  twilight,  also,  when  the  garden  was  submerged 
in  dew,  this  old  seigneurial  chamber  was  a  re- 
treat fit  for  a  sybarite  or  a  modern  aesthete.  The 
stillness,  the  soft  luxurious  cushions,  the  rich  dusk 
thickening  in  the  corners,  the  complete  isolation 
of  the  old  room  from  the  noise  and  tumult  of  the 
inn  life,  its  curious,  its  delightful  unmodernness, 
made  this  Marmouset  room  an  ideal  setting  for 
any  mediaeval  picture.  Even  a  sentiment  tinct- 
ured with  modern  cynicism  would,  I  think,  have 
borrowed  a  little  antique  fervor,  if,  like  the  pho- 
tographic negative  our  nineteenth-century  emo- 
tionalism somewhat  too  closely  resembles,  in  its 
colorless  indefiniteness,  the  sentiment  were  suffi- 
ciently exposed,  in  point  of  time  and  degree  of 
sensitiveness,  to  the  charm  of  these  old  surround- 
ings. 

On  this  particular  evening,  however,  the  patter- 


190  THREE  NORMANDY  INNS. 

ing  of  the  raiu  without  on  the  cobbles  and  the 
great  blaze  of  the  fire  within,  made  the  old  room 
seem  more  beautiful  than  we  had  yet  seen  it. 
Perhaps  the  capture  of  our  host  as  a  guest  was 
the  added  treasure  needed  to  complete  our  collec- 
tion. Monsieur  Paul  himself  was  in  a  mood  of 
prodigal  liberality ;  he  was,  as  he  himself  neatly 
termed  the  phrase,  ripe  for  confession ;  not  a  se- 
cret should  escape  revelation ;  all  the  inn  mys- 
teries should  yield  up  the  fiction  of  their  frauds ; 
the  full  nakedness  of  fact  should  be  given  to  us. 

"  You  see,  chcres  dames,  it  is  not  so  difficult  to 
create  the  beautiful,  if  one  has  a  little  taste  and 
great  patience.  My  inn  —  it  has  become  my 
hobby,  my  pride,  my  wife,  my  children.  Some 
men  marry  their  art,  I  espoused  my  inn.  I  found 
her  poor,  tattered,  broken-down  in  health,  if  you 
will ;  veril}",  as  your  Shakespeare  says  of  some 
country  wench :  '  a  poor  thing  but  mine  own.' " 
Monsieur  Paul's  possession  of  the  English  lan- 
guage was  scarcely  as  complete  as  the  storehouse 
of  his  memory.  He  would  have  been  surprised, 
doubtless,  to  learn  he  had  called  poor  Audrey,  "  a 
pure  ting,  buttaire  my  noon !  " 

"  She  was,  however,"  he  continued,  securely,  in 
his  own  richer  Norman,  "  though  a  wench,  a  beau- 
tiful one.  And  I  vowed  to  make  her  glorious. 
'  She  shall  be  famous,'  I  vowed,  and — and — bet- 
ter than  most  men  I  have  kept  my  vow.  All 
France  now  has  heard  of  Guillaume  le  Conque- 
ant ! " 

The  pride  Monsieur  Paul  took  in  his  inn  was 
indeed  a  fine  thing  to  see.     The  years  of  toil  he 


THREE  NORMANDY  INNS.  191 

had  spent  on  its  walls  and  in  its  embellishment 
had  brought  him  the  recompense  much  giving- 
always  brings ;  it  had  enriched  him  quite  as 
much  as  the  wealth  of  his  taste  and  talent  had 
bequeathed  to  the  inn.  Latterly,  he  said,  he  had 
travelled  much,  his  collection  of  curios  and  antiq- 
uities having  called  him  farther  afield  than  many 
Frenchmen  care  to  wander.  His  love  of  Delft 
had  taken  him  to  Holland ;  his  passion  for  Span- 
ish leather  to  the  country  of  Velasquez  ;  he  must 
have  a  Virgin,  a  genuine  fifteenth-century  Virgin, 
all  his  OAvn  ;  behold  her  there,  in  her  stiff  wooden 
skirts,  a  Neapolitan  captive.  The  brass  braziers 
yonder,  at  which  the  courtiers  of  the  Henris  had 
warmed  their  feet,  stamping  the  night  out  in  cold 
ante-chambers,  had  been  secured  at  Blois ;  and 
his  collection  of  tapestries,  of  stained  glass,  of 
Normandy  brasses,  and  Breton  carvings  had  made 
his  OAvn  coast  as  familiar  as  the  Dives  streets. 

"  The  priests  who  sold  me  these,  madame,"  he 
went  on,  as  he  picked  up  a  priest's  chasuble,  now 
doing  duty  as  a  table  covering  "  would  sell  their 
fathers  and  their  mothers.  It  is  all  a  question  of 
price." 

After  a  review  of  the  curios  came  the  history  of 
the  human  collection  of  antiquities  who  had  peo- 
pled the  inn  and  this  old  room. 

Many  and  various  had  been  the  visitors  who 
had  slept  and  dined  here  and  gone  forth  on  their 
travels  along  the  high-road. 

The  inn  had  had  a  noble  origin ;  it  had  been 
built  by  no  less  a  personage  than  the  great  Will- 
iam himself.     He  had  deemed  the  sjDot  a  fitting 


192  THREE  NORMANDY  INNS. 

one  in  which  to  build  his  boats  to  start  forth  for 
his  modest  i^roject  of  conquering  England.  He 
could  watch  their  construction  in  the  waters  of 
Dives  River — that  flows  still,  out  yonder,  among- 
the  grasses  of  the  sea-meadows.  For  some  years 
the  Norman  dukes  held  to  the  inn,  in  memor}'  of 
the  success  of  that  clever  boat-building.  Then 
for  five  centuries  the  inn  became  a  manoir — the 
seigneurial  residence  of  a  certain  Sieur  de  Sem- 
illy.  It  was  his  arms  we  saw  yonder,  joined  to 
those  of  Savoy,  in  the  door  panel,  one  of  the 
family  having  married  into  a  branch  of  that  great 
house. 

Of  the  famous  ones  of  the  world  who  had  trav- 
elled along  this  Caen  post-road  and  stopped  the 
night  here,  humanly  tired,  like  any  other  humble 
wayfarer,  was  a  hurried  visit  from  that  king  who 
loved  his  trade — Louis  XI.  He  and  his  suite 
crowded  into  the  low  rooms,  grateful  for  a  bed 
and  a  fire,  after  the  weary  pilgrimage  to  the 
heights  of  Mont  St.  Michel.  Louis's  piety,  how- 
ever, was  not  as  lasting-  in  its  physically  exhaust- 
ive effects,  as  Avere  the  fleshly  excesses  of  a 
certain  other  king — one  Henri  IV.,  whose  over-ap- 
preciation of  the  oysters  served  him  here,  caused 
a  royal  attack  of  colic,  as  you  may  read  at  your 
pleasure  in  the  State  Archives  in  Paris — since, 
quite  rightly,  the  royal  secretary  must  write  the 
court  physician  every  detail  of  so  imjDortant  an 
event.  AVhat  with  these  kingly  travellers  and 
such  modern  uncrowned  kings  as  Puvis  de  Cha- 
vannes,  Dumas,  George  Sand,  Daubigny,  and  Troy- 
on,  together  with  a  goodly  number  of  lesser  great 


THREE  NORMANDY  INNS.  193 

ones,  tlie  famous  little  inn  has  liad  no  reason  to 
feel  itself  slighted  by  the  great  of  any  century. 
Of  all  this  motley  company  of  notabilities  there 
were  two  whose  visits  seemed  to  have  been  in- 
definitely prolonged.  There  was  nothing,  in  this 
present  flowery,  picturesque  assemblage  of  build- 
ings, to  suggest  a  certain  wild  di'ama  enacted  here 
centuries  ago.  Nothing  either  in  yonder  tender 
skj^,  nor  in  the  silvery  foliage  on  a  fair  day,  which 
should  conjure  up  the  image  of  William  as  he 
must  have  stood  again  and  again  beside  the  little 
river;  nor  of  the  fury  of  his  impatience  as  the 
boats  were  building  all  too  slowly  for  his  hot 
hopes ;  nor  of  the  strange  and  motley  crew  he  had 
summoned  there  from  all  corners  of  Europe  to  cut 
the  trees ;  to  build  and  launch  boats  ;  to  sail  them, 
finally,  across  the  strip  of  water  to  that  England 
he  was  to  meet  at  last,  to  grapple  with,  and  over- 
throw, even  as  the  English  huscarles  in  their  turn 
bore  down  on  that  gay  Minstrel  Taillefer,  who 
rode  so  insolently  forth  to  meet  them,  with  a  song 
in  his  throat,  tossing  his  sword  in  English  eyes, 
still  chanting  the  song  of  Koland  as  he  fell. 
None  of  the  inn  features  were  in  the  least  informed 
with  this  great,  impressive  picture  of  its  past. 
Yet  does  William  seem  by  far  the  most  realizable 
of  all  the  jaersonages  who  have  inhabited  the  old 
house. 

There  was  another  visitor  whose  presence  Mon- 
sieur Paul  declared  was  as  entirely  real  as  if  she, 
also,  had  only  just  passed  within  the  court-yard. 

"  I  know  not  why  it  is,  but  of  all  these  great,  ee.<? 
fameux,   Madame  de   Sevigne   seems  to  me  the 


194  THREE  NORMANDT  INNS. 

nearest,  in  point  of  time.  Her  visit  appears  to 
have  happened  only  yesterday.  I  never  enter  her 
room  but  I  seem  to  see  her  moving  about,  talk- 
ing, laughing,  speaking  in  epigrams.  She  men- 
tions the  inn,  you  know,  in  her  letters.  She  gives 
the  details  of  her  journey  in  full." 

I,  also,  knew  not  why;  but,  later,  after  Mon- 
sieur Paul  had  left  us,  when  he  had  shut  himself 
out,  along  with  the  pattering  raindi'ops,  and  had 
closed  us  in  with  the  warmth  and  the  flickering 
fire-light,  there  came,  with  astonishing  clearness, 
a  vision  of  that  lady's  visit  here.  She  and  her 
company  of  friends  might  have  been  stopping, 
that  very  instant,  without,  in  the  open  court.  I, 
also,  seemed  to  hear  the  very  tones  of  their  voices  ; 
their  talk  w^as  as  audible  as  the  wind  rustling  in 
the  vines.  In  the  growing  stillness  the  vision 
grew  and  grew,  till  this  was  what  I  saw  and  heard: 


TWO   BANQUETS  AT   DIVES. 


CHAPTEK  XX. 


A  SEYENTEEXTH-CENTUEY  REVIVAL. 


Olttside  the  inn,  some  two 
hundred  years  ago,  there 
was  a  great  noise  and  con- 
fiTsion ;  the  cries  of  out- 
riders, of  mounted  guards- 
men and  halberdiers,  made 
the  quiet  village  as  noisy 
as  a  camj).  An  imposing 
cavalcade  was  being 
brought  to  a  sharp  stop  : 
for  the  outriders  had  sud- 
denly perceived  the  open 
inn  entrance,  with  its  raised  portcullis,  and  they 
were  shouting  to  the  coachmen  to  turn  in,  beneath 
the  archwaj^,  to  the  paved  court-j'ard  within. 

In  an  incrediblj'  short  space  of  time  the  open 
quadrangle  presented  a  brilliant  picture ;  the 
dashing  guardsmen  were  dismounting  ;  the  maids 
and  lackeys  had  quickly  descended  from  their 
perches  in  the  calecTies  and  coaches ;  and  the 
gentlemen  of  the  household  were  dusting  their 
wide  hats  and  lace-trimmed  coats.  The  halber- 
diers, ranging  themselves  in  line,  made  a  pris- 
matic grouping  beneath  the  low  eaves  of  the 
picturesque  old  inn.     In  the  very  middle  of  the 


19S  THREE  NORMANDY  INNS. 

court-yard  stood  a  coach,  resplendent  in  painted 
l^anels  and  emblazoned  with  ducal  arms.  About 
this  coach,  as  soon  as  the  four  horses  which  drew 
the  vehicle  were  brought  to  a  standstill,  cavaliers, 
footmen,  and  maids  swarmed  with  effusive  zeal. 
One  of  the  footmen  made  a  rush  for  the  door- 
another  let  down  the  steps ;  one  cavalier  was 
already  presenting  an  outstretched,  deferential 
hand,  while  still  another  held  forth  an  arm,  as 
rigid  as  a  post,  for  the  use  of  the  occupants  of  the 
ducal  carriage. 

Three  ladies  were  seated  within.  Large  and 
roomy  as  was  the  vehicle,  their  voluminous  drap- 
eries and  the  paraphernalia  of  their  belongings 
seemed  completely  to  fill  the  wide,  deep  seats. 
The  ladies  were  the  Duchesse  de  Chaulnes,  Ma- 
dame de  Kerman,  and  Madame  de  Sevigne.  The 
faces  of  the  Duchesse  and  of  Madame  de  Kerman 
were  invisible,  being  still  covered  with  their 
masks,  which,  both  as  a  matter  of  habit  and  of 
precaution  against  the  sun's  rays,  they  had  re- 
ligiously worn  during  the  long  day's  journey. 
But  Madame  de  Sevigne  had  torn  hers  off;  she 
was  holding  it  in  her  hand,  as  if  glad  to  be  re- 
lieved from  its  confinement. 

All  three  ladies  were  in  the  highest  possible 
spirits,  Madame  de  Sevigne  obviously  being  the 
leader  of  the  jests  and  the  laughter. 

They  were  in  a  mood  to  find  everything  amus- 
ing and  delightful.  Even  after  they  had  left  the 
coach  and  were  carefully  picking  their  way  over 
the  rough  stones — walking  on  their  high-heeled 
"mules,"  at  best,  was  always  a  dangerous  per- 


THREE  NORMANDY  INNS.  199 

formance — their  laughter  and  gayety  continued  in 
undiminished  exuberance.  Madame  de  Sevigne's 
keen  sense  of  humor  found  so  many  things  to 
ridicule.  Could  anything,  for  example,  be  more 
comical  than  the  spectacle  they  presented  as  they 
walked,  in  state,  with  their  long  trains  and  high- 
heeled  slippers,  up  these  absurd  little  turret 
steps,  feeling  their  way  as  carefully  as  if  they 
were  each  a  i^ickpocket  or  an  assassin  ?  The  long 
line  behind  of  maids  carrying  their  muffs,  and  of 
lackeys  with  the  muff-dogs,  and  of  pages  hold- 
ing their  trains,  and  the  grinning  innkeeper, 
bursting  with  pride  and  courtesying  as  if  he  had 
St.  Vitus's  dance,  all  this  crowd  coiling  round  the 
rude  spiral  stairway — it  was  enough  to  make  one 
die  of  laughter.  Such  state  in  such  savage  sur- 
roundings ! — they  and  their  j)atch-boxes,  and  tow- 
ering head-gears  and  trains,  and  dogs  and  fans, 
all  crowded  into  a  place  fit  only  for  peasants ! 

When  they  reached  their  bedchambers  the  ridi- 
cule was  turned  into  a  condescending  admiration  ; 
they  found  their  rooms  unexpectedly  clean  and 
airy.  The  furniture  was  all  antique,  of  interest- 
ing design,  and  though  rude,  really  astonishingly 
comfortable.  Beds  and  dressing-tables,  mostly  of 
Henry  III.'s  time,  were  elaborately  canopied  in 
the  hideous  crude  draperies  of  that  primitive 
epoch.  How  different  were  the  elegant  shapes 
and  brocades  of  their  own  time!  Fortunately 
their  women  had  suitable  hangings  and  draperies 
with  them,  as  well,  of  course,  as  any  amount  of 
linen  and  any  number  of  mattresses.  The  settees 
and  benches  would  do  very  well,  with  the  aid  of 


200  THREE  NORMANDY  INNS. 

their  own  hassocks  and  cushions,  and,  after  all,  it 
was  only  for  a  night,  they  reminded  the  other. 

The  toilet,  after  the  heat  and  exposure  of  the 
day,  was  necessarily  a  long-  one.  The  Duchesse 
and  Madame  de  Kerman  had  their  faces  to  make 
up — all  the  paint  had  run,  and  not  a  patch  was  in 
its  place.  Hair,  also,  of  this  later  de  Maintenon 
period,  with  its  elaborate  artistic  rang-es  of  curls, 
to  say  nothing-  of  the  care  that  must  be  given  to 
the  coif  and  the  "  follette,"  these  were  matters  that 
demanded  the  utmost  nicety  of  arraug-ement. 

In  an  hour,  however,  the  three  ladies  reassem- 
bled, in  the  panelled  lower  room — in  "  la  Cham- 
bre  de  la  Pucelle."  In  spite  of  the  care  her  two 
companions  had  g"iven  to  repairing  the  damag-es 
caused  by  their  journey,  of  the  three,  Madame  de 
Sevig-ne  looked  by  far  the  freshest  and  youngest. 
She  still  wore  her  hair  in  the  loosely  iiowing-  de 
Montespan  fashion;  a  stjde  which,  thoug"h  now 
out  of  date,  was  one  that  exactly  suited  her  fair 
skin,  her  candid  brow,  and  her  brilliant  eyes. 
These  latter,  when  one  examined  them  closely, 
were  found  to  be  of  different  colors  ;  but  this  pe- 
culiarity, which  might  have  been  a  serious  defect 
in  any  other  countenance,  in  Madame  de  Sevig-ne's 
brilliant  face  was  perhaps  one  cause  of  its  extraor- 
dinarily luminous  quality.  Not  one  feature  was 
perfect  in  that  fascinating-ly  mobile  face  :  the  chin 
was  a  trifle  too  long-  for  a  woman's  chin ;  the  lips, 
that  broke  into  such  delicious  curves  when  she 
laug-hed,  when  at  rest  betrayed  the  firmness  of 
her  wit  and  the  almost  masculine  quality  of  her 
reasoning-  judgment.     Even  her  arms  and  hands 


THREE  NORMANDY  INNS.  203 

and  her  shoulders  were  "  mal  tailles,"  as  her  con- 
temporaries would  have  told  you.  But  what  a 
charm  in  those  irregular  features  !  What  a  seduc- 
tiveness in  the  ensemble  of  that  not  too-well-pro- 
portioned figure !  What  an  indescribable  radiance 
seemed  to  emanate  from  the  entire  personality  of 
this  most  captivating  of  women  ! 

As  she  moved  about  the  low  room,  dark  with 
the  trembling  shadows  of  light  that  flowed  from 
the  bunches  of  candles  in  the  sconces,  Madame 
de  Sevigne's  clear  com^Dlexion,  and  her  unj)ow- 
dered  chestnut  curls,  seemed  to  spot  the  room  with 
light.  Her  companions,  though  dressed  in  the" 
very  height  of  the  fashion,  were  yet  not  half  as 
catching  to  the  eye.  Neither  their  minute  waists, 
nor  their  elaborate  underskirts  and  trains,  nor 
their  tall  gofi'ered  coifs  (the  duchesse's  was  not  un- 
like a  bishop's  mitre,  studded  as  it  was  with  rubj^- 
headed  j)ins),  nor  the  correctness  of  these  ladies' 
carefully  placed  i3atches,  nor  yet  their  painted 
necks  and  tinted  eyebrows,  could  charm  as  did  the 
unmodish  figure  of  Madame  de  Sevigne — a  figure 
so  iudifierently  clad,  and  yet  one  so  replete  with 
its  distinction  of  innate  elegance  and  the  subtle 
charm  of  her  individuality. 

With  the  entrance  of  these  ladies  dinner  was 
served  at  once.  The  talk  flowed  on ;  it  was,  how- 
ever, more  or  less  restrained  by  the  presence  of  the 
always  too  curious  lackeys,  of  the  bustling  inn- 
keeper, and  the  gentlemen  of  the  household  in  at- 
tendance on  the  party.  As  a  s^oectacle,  the  little 
room  had  never  boasted  before  of  such  an  assem- 
blage of  fashion  and  greatness.     Never  before  had 


202  THREE  NORMANDY  INNS. 

the  air  under  the  rafters  been  so  loaded  with 
scents  and  i^erfumes — these  ladies  seeminf^,  indeed, 
to  breathe  out  odors.  Never  before  had  there 
been  grouped  there  such  splendor  of  toilet,  nor 
had  such  courtly  accents  been  heard,  nor  such 
finished  laughter.  The  fire  and  the  candlelig-ht 
were  in  competition  which  should  best  light  up 
the  tall  transparent  caps,  the  lace  fichus,  the  bro- 
cade bodices,  and  the  long  trains.  The  little  muif- 
dogs,  released  from  their  prisons,  since  the  muffs 
were  laid  aside  at  dinner-time,  blinked  at  the  fire, 
curling  their  minute  bodies— clipped  lion-fashion 
— about  the  huge  andirons,  as  they  snored  to  kill 
time,  knowing  their  o^ti  dinner  would  come  only 
when  their  mistresses  had  done. 

After  the  dessert  had  been  served  the  ladies 
withdrew  ;  they  were  preceded  by  the  ever-bowing 
innkeeper,  who  assured  them,  in  his  most  rever- 
ential tones,  that  they  woidd  find  the  room  open- 
ing on  the  other  court-yard  even  warmer  and  more 
comfortable  than  the  one  they  were  in.  In  spite 
of  the  walk  across  the  paved  court-yard  and  the 
enormous  height  of  their  heels,  always  a  fact  to  be 
remembered,  the  ladies  voted  to  make  the  change, 
since  by  that  means  they  could  be  assured  the 
more  entire  seclusion.  Mild  as  was  the  May  air, 
Madame  de  Kerman's  hand-glass  hanging  at  her 
side  was  quickly  lifted  in  the  very  middle  of  the 
open  court-j'^ard ;  she  had  scarcely  passed  the  door 
when  she  had  felt  one  of  her  patches  blowing 
off. 

"  I  caught  it  just  in  time,  dear  duchesse,"  she 
cried,  as  she  stood  quite  still,  replacing  it  with  a 


THREE  NORMANDT  INNS.  203 

fresh  one  iDicked  from  her  patch-box,  as  the  others 
passed  her. 

"  The  very  best  patch-maker  I  have  found  lives 
in  the  rue  St.  Denis,  at  the  sig-n  of  La  Perle  des 
Mouches  ;  have  you  discovered  him,  dear  friend  ? " 
said  the  duchesse,  as  they  walked  on  toward  the 
low  door  beneath  the  galleries. 

"  No,  dear  duchesse,  I  fear  I  have  not  even  looked 
for  him  —  the  science  of  patches  I  have  always 
found  so  much  harder  than  the  science  of  living" !  " 
g"ayly  answered  Madame  de  Sevigne. 

Madame  de  Kerman  had  now  rejoined  them,  and 
all  three  passed  into  la  Chambre  des  Marmousets. 


CHAPTER  XXI. 

THE  AFTER-DINNER  TALK  OF  THREE  GREAT  LADIES. 

The  three  ladies  grouped  them- 
selves about  the  fire,  which 
they  found  already  lighted. 
The  duchesse  chose  a  Henry 
II.  carved  arm-chair,  one,  she 
laughingly  remarked,  quite 
large  enough  to  have  held  both  the  King  and  Di- 
ana. A  lackey  carrj^ing  the  inevitable  muff-dogs, 
their  fans,  and  scent-bottles,  had  followed  the 
ladies ;  he  placed  a  hassock  at  the  duchesse's  feet, 
two  beneath  the  slender  feet  of  Madame  de  Ker- 
man,  and,  after  having  been  bidden  to  open  one  of 
the  casements,  since  it  was  still  so  light  Avithout, 
withdi-ew,  leaving  the  ladies  alone. 

Although  Madame  de  Sevigne  had  comfortably 
ensconced  herself  in  one  of  the  deep  window-seats, 
piling  the  cushions  behind  her,  no  sooner  was  the 
window  opened  than  with  characteristic  impetu- 
osity she  jumped  up  to  look  out  into  the  country 
that  lay  bej'ond  the  leaded  glass.  In  spite  of  the 
long  day's  drive  in  the  open  air,  her  appetite  for 
blowing  roses  and  sweet  earth  smells  had  not  been 
sated.  Madame  de  Sevigne  all  her  life  had  been 
the  victim  of  two  loves  and  a  passion  ;  she  adored 
society  and  she  loved  nature  j    these  were    her 


MADAME    DE    SEVIGXfi. 


THREE  NORMANDY  INNS.  205 

lesser  delig-hts,  that  g-ave  way  before  the  chief 
idolatry  of  her  soul,  her  adoration  for  her  daug-h- 
ter. 

As  she  stood  by  the  open  window,  her  charming 
face,  always  a  mirror  of  her  emotions,  was  suf- 
fused with  a  glow  and  a  bloom  that  made  it  seem 
young-  again.  Her  eyes  grew  to  twice  their  com- 
mon size  under  the  "  wandering  "  eyelids,  as  her 
gaze  roved  over  the  meadows  and  across  the  tall 
grasses  to  the  sea.  A  part  of  her  youth  was  be- 
ing, indeed,  vividly  brought  back  to  her  ;  the  sight 
of  this  marine  landscape  recalled  many  memories  ; 
and  with  the  recollection  her  whole  face  and  fig- 
ure seemed  to  irradiate  something  of  the  inward 
ardor  that  consumed  her.  She  had  passed  this 
very  road,  through  this  same  country  before,  long 
ago,  in  her  youth,  with  her  children.  She  half 
smiled  at  the  remembrance  of  a  description  given 
of  the  impression  produced  by  her  appearance  on 
the  journey  by  her  friend  the  Abbe  Arnauld ;  he 
had  ecstatically  compared  her  to  Latona  seated  in 
an  open  coach,  between  a  youthful  Apollo  and  a 
young  Diana.  In  spite  of  the  abbe's  poetical  ex- 
travagance, Madame  de  Sevigne  recognized,  in 
this  moment  of  retrospect,  the  truth  of  the  pict- 
ure. That,  indeed,  had  been  a  radiant  moment ! 
Her  life  at  that  time  had  been  so  full,  and  the 
rapture  so  complete — the  rapture  of  possessing 
her  children — that  she  could  remember  to  have 
had  the  sense  of  fairly  evaporating  happiness. 
And  now,  the  sigh  came,  how  scattered  was  this 
gay  group  !  her  son  in  Brittany,  her  daughter  in 
Provence,  two  hundred  leagues  away !     And  she. 


206  THREE  NORMANDY  INNS. 

au  elderly  Latoiia,  mourning  her  Apollo  and  lier 
divine  huntress,  lier  incomparable  Diana. 

The  inextinguishable  flame  of  youth  was  burn- 
ing still,  however,  in  Madame  de  Sevigne's  rich 
nature.  This  adventure,  this  amazing  adventure 
of  three  ladies  of  the  court  having  to  pass  the 
night  in  a  rude  little  Normandy  inn,  she,  for  one, 
was  finding  richly  seasoned  with  the  spice  of  the 
unforeseen ;  it  would  be  something  to  talk  of  and 
write  about  for  a  month  hence  at  Chaulnes  and  at 
Paris.  Their  entire  journey,  in  point  of  fact,  had 
been  a  series  of  the  most  delightful  episodes.  It 
was  now  nearly  a  month  since  they  had  started  from 
Picardy,  from  the  castle  of  Chaulnes,  going  into 
Normandy  via  Rouen.  They  had  been  on  a  driving 
tour,  their  destination  being  Kennes,  which  they 
would  reach  in  a  week  or  so.  They  had  been  trav- 
elling in  great  state,  with  the  very  best  coach,  the 
very  best  horses  ;  and  they  had  been  guarded  hj  a 
whole  regiment  of  cavaliers  and  halberdiers.  Ev- 
ery possible  precaution  had  been  taken  against 
their  being  disagreeably  surprised  on  their  route. 
Their  chief  fear  on  the  journey  had  been,  of  course, 
the  cry  common  in  their  day  of  "  Au  voleur  !  "  and 
the  meeting  of  brigands  and  assassins ;  for,  once 
outside  of  Paris  and  the  police  reforms  of  that 
dear  Colbert,  and  one  must  be  prepared  to  take 
one's  life  in  one's  hand.  Happily,  no  such  misad- 
ventures had  befallen  them.  The  roads,  it  is  true, 
thej"  had  found  for  the  most  j^art  in  a  horrible 
condition ;  they  had  been  pitched  about  from  one 
end  of  their  coach  to  the  other '  they  might  easily 
have  imagined  themselves  at  sea.     The  dust  also 


THREE  NORMANDY  INNS.  207 

had  nearly  blinded  them,  in  spite  of  their  masks. 
The  other  nuisances  most  difficult  to  put  up 
with  had  been  the  swarm  of  beggars  that  infested 
the  roadsides ;  and  worst  of  all  had  been  the 
army  of  crippled,  deformed,  and  mang-y  soldiers. 
These  latter  they  had  encountered  everywhere; 
their  whines  and  cries,  their  armless,  legless  bod- 
ies, their  hideous  filth,  and  their  insolent  impor- 
tunities, they  had  found  a  veritable  X3est. 

Another  annoyance  had  been  the  over-zealous 
courtesy  of  some  of  the  upper  middle-class. 
Only  yesterday,  in  the  very  midst  of  the  dust  and 
under  the  burning  noon  sun,  they  had  all  been 
forced  to  alight,  to  receive  the  homage  tendered 
the  duchesse,  of  some  thirty  women  and  as  many 
men.  Each  one  of  the  sixty  must,  of  course,  kiss 
the  duchesse's  hand.  It  was  really  an  outrage  to 
have  exposed  them  to  such  a  form  of  torture  !  Poor 
Madame  de  Kerman,  the  delicate  one  of  the  party, 
had  entirely  collapsed  after  the  ceremony.  The 
duchesse  also  had  been  prostrated ;  it  had  wearied 
her  more  than  all  the  rest  of  the  journey.  Madame 
de  Sevigne  alone  had  not  suffered.  She  was  pos- 
sessed of  a  degree  of  physical  fortitude  which 
made  her  equal  to  any  demand.  The  other  two 
ladies,  as  well  as  she  herself,  were  now  experienc- 
ing the  pleasant  exhilaration  which  comes  with 
the  hour  of  rest  after  an  excellent  dinner.  They 
were  in  a  condition  to  remember  nothing  except 
the  agreeable.  Madame  de  Sevigne  was  the  first 
to  break  the  silence. 

She  turned,  with  a  brisk  yet  graceful  abrupt- 
ness, to  the  two  ladies  still  seated  before  the  low 


208  THREE  NORMANDY  INNS. 

fire.  With  a  charmin"-  outburst  of  enthusiasm 
she  exclaimed  aloud : 

"  AYhat  a  beauty,  and  youth,  and  tenderness  this 
spring  has,  has  it  not "?  " 

"  Yes,"  answered  the  duchesse,  smiling"  gra- 
ciously into  Madame  de  Sevigne's  brilliantly  lit 
face;  "yes,  the  weather  in  truth  has  been  perfect." 

"  What  an  adorable  journey  we  have  had !  "  con- 
tinued Madame  de  Sevigne,  in  the  same  tone,  her 
ardor  undampeued  by  the  cooler  accent  of  her 
friend — she  was  used  to  having  her  enthusiasm 
greeted  with  consideration  rather  than  response. 
"  What  a  journey  ! — only  meeting  with  the  most 
agreeable  of  adventures ;  not  the  slightest  incon- 
venience anywhere  ;  eating  the  very  best  of  every- 
thing ;  and  di-iving  through  the  heart  of  this  en- 
chanting springtime  !  ' 

Her  listeners  laughed  quietly,  with  an  accent 
of  indulgence.  It  was  the  habit  of  her  world  to 
find  everything  Madame  de  Sevigne  did  or  said 
charming.  Even  her  frankness  was  forgiven  her, 
her  tact  was  so  perfect  ;  and  her  spontaneitj^  had 
always  been  accounted  as  her  chief  excellence  ;  in 
the  stifled  air  of  the  court  and  the  rueUea  it  had 
been  frequently  likened  to  the  blowing  in  of  a 
fresh  May  breeze.  Her  present  mood  was  one 
well  knowTi  to  both  ladies. 

"  Always  '  pretty  pagan,'  dear  madame,"  smiled 
Madame  de  Kerman,  indulgently.  "How  Avell 
named — and  what  a  happy  hit  of  our  friend  Ar- 
nauld  d'Audilly  !  You  are  in  truth  a  delicious — 
an  adorable  pagan  !  You  have  such  a  sense  of  the 
joy  of  living !     Why,  even  living  in  the  country 


THREE  NORMAN DT  INNS.  209 

has,  it  apiDeai's,  no  terrors  for  you.  We  hear  of 
your  walking"  about  in  the  moonlight — you  make 
your  very  trees  talk,  they  tell  us,  in  Italian — in 
Latin  ;  you  actually  pass  whole  hours  alone  with 
the  hamadryads !  "  There  was  just  a  susjpicion  of 
irony  in  Madame  de  Kerman's  tone,  in  spite  of  its 
caressing-  softness ;  it  was  so  impossible  to  con- 
ceive of  anyone  really  finding  nature  endurable, 
much  less  pretending'  to  discover  in  trees  and 
flowers  anything  amusing  or  suggestive  of  senti- 
ment ! 

But  Madame  de  Sevigne  was  quite  impervious 
to  her  friend's  raillery.  She  responded,  with  per- 
fect good  humor : 

"  Why  not  ? — why  not  try  to  discover  beauties 
in  nature  ?  One  can  be  so  happy  in  a  wood ! 
What  a  charming  thing  to  hear  a  leaf  sing !  I 
know  few  things  more  delightful  than  to  watch 
the  triumph  of  the  month  of  May  when  the 
nightingale,  the  cuckoo,  and  the  lark  open  the 
spring  in  our  forests !  And  then,  later,  come 
those  beautiful  crystal  days  of  autumn — days  that 
are  neither  warm,  nor  yet  are  they  really  cold ! 
And  then  the  trees — how  eloquent  they  can  be 
made;  with  a  little  teaching  they  may  be  made 
to  converse  so  charmingly.  Bella  cosa  far  nienfe, 
says  one  of  my  trees ;  and  another  answers.  Amor 
odit  ineries.  Ah,  when  I  had  to  bid  farewell  to  all 
my  leaves  and  trees  ;  when  my  son  had  to  dispose 
of  the  forest  of  Buron,  to  pay  for  some  of  his 
follies,  you  remember  how  I  wept!  It  seemed  to 
me  I  could  actually  feel  the  grief  of  those  dispos- 
sessed sylvans  and  of  all  those  homeless  dryads  ! " 


210  THREE  NORMANDY  INNS. 

"It  is  this,  clear  friend — this  life  you  lead  at 
Les  Eochers — and  your  enthusiasm,  which  keep 
yon  so  young".  Yes,  I  am  sure  of  it.  How  incon- 
ceivably young-,  for  instance,  you  are  looking*  this 
very  evening !  You  and  the  g-low  out  yonder 
make  youth  seem  no  longer  a  legend." 

The  duchesse  delivered  her  flattering  little 
speech  with  a  caressing"  tone.  She  moved  gently 
forward  in  her  chair,  as  if  to  g"ain  a  better  view  of 
the  twilig"ht  and  her  friend.  At  the  sound  of  the 
duchesse's  voice  Madame  de  Sevigne  again  turned, 
with  the  same  charming"  smile  and  the  quick  im- 
pulsiveness of  movement  common  to  her.  Dur- 
ing her  long  monologue  she  had  remained  stand- 
ing: biit  she  left  the  window  now  to  reg"ain  her 
seat  amid  the  cushions  of  the  window.  There 
was  something"  better  than  the  twilight  and  the 
spring"  in  the  air;  here,  within,  were  two  delight- 
ful friends — and  listeners  ;  there  was  before  her, 
also,  the  prospect  of  one  of  those  endless  conver- 
sations that  were  the  chief  delight  of  her  life. 

She  laughed  as  she  seated  herself — a  gay,  frank, 
hearty  little  laugh  —  and  she  spread  out  her 
hands  with  the  opening"  of  her  fan,  as,  with  her 
usual  vivacious  spontaneity,  her  mood  changed. 

"  Fancy,  dear  duchesse,  the  punishment  that 
comes  to  one  who  commits  the  crime  of  looking 
young — younger  than  one  ought !  My  son-in-law, 
M.  de  Grignan,  actually  avows  he  is  in  daily  terror 
lest  I  should  give  him  a  father-in-law  •  " 

All  three  ladies  laughed  gayly  at  this  absurd- 
ity; the  subject  of  Madame  de  Sevigne's  remarry 
ing  had  come  to  be  a  venerable  joke  now     It  had 


THREE  NORMANDY  INNS.  211 

been  talked  of  at  court  and  in  society  for  nearly 
forty  years ;  but  such  was  the  conquering-  power 
of  her  charms  that  these  two  friends,  her  listeners, 
saw  nothing-  really  extravagant  in  her  son-in-law's 
fear ;  she  was  one  of  those  rare  women  who,  even 
at  sixty,  continue  to  suggest  the  altar  rather  than 
the  grave.  Madame  de  Kerman  was  the  first  to 
recover  her  breath  after  the  laughter. 

"  Dear  friend,  you  might  assure  him  that  after 
a  youth  and  the  golden  meridian  of  your  years 
passed  in  smiling-  indifference  to  the  sighs  of  a 
Prince  de  Conti,  of  a  Turenne,  of  a  Fouquet,  of  a 
Bussy  de  Rabutin,  at  sixty  it  is  scarcely  likely 
that " 

"  Ah,  dear  lady !  at  sixty,  when  one  has  the 
complexion  and  the  curls,  to  say  nothing  of  the 
eyes  of  our  dear  enchantress,  a  woman  is  as  dan- 
gerous as  at  thirty  ! "  The  duchesse's  flattery 
was  charmingly  put,  with  just  enough  vivacity  of 
tone  to  save  it  from  the  charge  of  insipidity. 
Madame  de  Sevig-ne  bowed  her  curls  to  her  waist. 

"  Ah,  dear  duchesse,  it  isn't  age,"  she  retorted, 
quickly,  "  that  could  make  me  commit  follies. 
It  is  the  fact  that  that  son-in-law  of  mine  actually 
surrounds  me  with  spies— he  keeps  me  in  perpet- 
ual surveillance.  Such  a  state  of  captivity  is  capa- 
ble of  making  me  forget  everything ;  I  am  begin- 
ning to  develop  a  positive  rage  for  follies.  You 
know  that  has  been  my  chief  fault— always  ;  discre- 
tion has  been  left  out  of  my  composition.  But  I  say 
now,  as  I  have  always  said,  that  if  I  could  manag-e 
to  live  two  hundred  years,  I  should  become  the 
most  delightful  person  in  the  world !  " 


212  THREE  NORMANDY  INNS. 

She  herself  was  the  first  to  lead  in  the  laus"hter 
that  followed  her  outburst ;  and  then  the  du- 
chesse  broke  in : 

"  You  talk  of  defects,  dear  friend ;  but  reflect 
what  a  life  yours  has  been.  So  surrounded  and 
courted,  and  yet  you  were  always  so  guarded ;  so 
free,  and  yet  so  wise !  So  gay,  and  yet  so 
chaste  !  " 

"  If  you  rubbed  out  all  those  flattering-  colors, 
dear  duchesse,  and  wrote  only,  '  She  worshipped 
her  children,  and  preferred  friends  to  lovers,'  the 
portrait  would  be  far  nearer  to  the  truth.  It  is 
easy  to  be  chaste  if  one  has  only  known  one  pas- 
sion in  one's  life,  and  that  the  maternal  one !  " 

Again  a  change  passed  over  Madame  de  Sevig- 
ne's  mobile  face ;  the  bantering  tone  was  lost  in  a 
note  of  deep  feeling.  This  gift  of  sensibilitj''  had 
always  been  accounted  as  one  of  Madame  de  Sevig- 
ne's  chief  charms ;  and  now,  at  sixty,  she  was  as 
completely  the  victim  of  her  moods  as  in  her 
earlier  youth. 

"  Where  is  your  daughter,  and  how  is  she  ?  " 
sympathetically  queried  the  duchesse. 

"  Oh,  she  is  still  at  Grignan,  as  usual :  she  is 
well,  thank  God.  But,  dear  duchesse,  after  all 
these  years  of  separation  I  suffer  still,  cruelly." 
The  tears  sprang  to  Madame  de  Sevigne's  eyes,  as 
she  added,  with  passion  and  a  force  one  would 
scarcely  have  expected  in  one  whose  manners 
were  so  finished,  "  the  truth  is,  dear  friends,  I  can- 
not live  without  her.  I  do  not  find  I  have  made 
the  least  progress  in  that  career.  But,  even  now, 
believe  me,  these  tears  are  sweeter  than  all  else 


THREE  NOBMANDY  INNS.  213 

in  life — more  enrapturing-  than  the  most  trans- 
porting joy !  " 

Madame  de  Kerman  smiled  tenderly  into  the 
rapturous  mother's  face ;  but  the  duchesse  moved, 
as  if  a  little  restless  and  uneasy  under  this  shower 
of  maternal  feeling-.  For  thirty  years  her  friends 
had  had  to  listen  to  Madame  de  Sevig-ne's  rhaj)- 
sodies  over  the  perfections  of  her  incomparable 
daughter.  Although  sensibility  was  not  the  emo- 
tional fashion  of  the  day,  maternity,  in  the  iDerson 
of  Madame  de  Hevigne,  had  been  apotheosized 
into  the  queen  of  the  ]3assions,  if  only  because  of 
its  rarity;  still,  even  this  lady's  most  intimate 
friends  sometimes  wearied  of  banqueting-  off  the 
feast  of  Madame  de  Grignan's  virtues. 

"  Have  you  heard  from  Madame  de  La  Fayette 
recently  ?  "  asked  the  duchesse,  allowing-  just  time 
enough  to  elapse,  before  lautting-  the  question,  for 
Madame  de  Sevigne's  emotion  to  subside  into  com- 
posure. The  duchesse  was  too  exquisitely  bred  to 
allow  her  impatience  to  take  the  form  of  even  the 
appearance  of  haste. 

"  Oh,  yes,"  was  Madame  de  Sevigne's  quiet  re- 
ply :  the  turn  in  the  conversation  had  been  in- 
stantly understood,  in  spite  of  the  delicacy  of  the 
duchesse's  methods.  "  Oh,  yes — I  have  had  a  line 
— only  a  line.  You  know  how  she  detests  writing-, 
above  all  things.  Her  letters  are  all  the  same — 
two  lines  to  say  that  she  has  no  time  in  which  to 
say  it !  " 

"  Did  she  not  once  write  you  a  pretty  little  series 
of  epigrams  about  not  writing  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes — some  time  ago,  when  I  was  with  my 


214  THREE  NORMANDY  INNS. 

daughter.  I've  quoted  them  so  often,  they  have 
become  famous.  '  You  are  in  Provence,  my 
beauty ;  your  hours  are  free,  and  your  mind  still 
more  so.  Your  love  for  corresponding-  with  every- 
one still  endures  within  you,  it  appears  ;  as  for  me, 
the  desire  to  write  to  any  human  being-  has  long 
since  j)assed  away — forever ;  aiid  if  I  had  a  lover 
who  insisted  on  a  letter  every  morning,  I  should 
certainly  break  with  him  ! '" 

"  What  a  curious  compound  she  is  !  And  how 
well  her  soubriquet  becomes  her  !  " 

"  Yes,  it  is  perfect — '  Le  Bi-ouillard  ' — the  fog. 
It  is  indeed  a  fog  that  has  always  enveloped  her, 
and  what  charming  horizons  are  disclosed  once  it 
is  lifted !  " 

"And  her  sensibilities— of  what  an  exquisite 
quality  ;  and  what  a  rare,  precious  type,  indeed,  is 
the  whole  of  her  nature  !  Do  you  remember  how 
alarmed  she  would  become  when  listening  to 
music  ■? " 

"  And  yet,  with  all  this  sensibility  and  delicacy 
of  organization  there  was  another  side  to  her 
nature."  Madame  de  Kerman  paused  a  moment 
before  she  went  on  ;  she  was  not  quite  sure  how 
far  she  dared  go  in  her  criticism  ;  Madame  de  La 
Fayette  was  such  an  intimate  friend  of  Madame 
de  Sevigne's. 

"  You  mean,"  that  lady  broke  out,  with  unhesi- 
tating candor,  "  that  she  is  also  a  very  selfish  per- 
son. You  know  that  is  my  daughter's  theory  of 
her — she  is  always  telling  me  how  Madame  de  La 
Fayette  is  making  use  of  me  ;  that  while  her  sen- 
sitiveness is  such  that   she    cannot   sustain   the 


THREE  NORMANDY  INNS.  215 

tragedy  of  a  farewell  visit — if  I  am  going  to  Les 
Eocliers  or  to  Provence,  when  I  go  to  paj^  my  last 
visit  I  must  pretend  it  is  only  an  ordinary  run- 
ning-in ;  yet  her  delicacy  does  not  prevent  her 
from  making  very  indelicate  proposals,  to  suit  her 
own  convenience.  You  remember  what  one  of  her 
commands  was,  don't  you  ?  " 

"  No,"  answered  the  duchesse,  for  both  herself 
and  her  companion.     "  Pray  tell  us." 

Madame  de  Sevigne  went  on  to  narrate  that 
once,  when  at  Les  Rochers,  Madame  de  La  Fayette 
was  quite  certain  that  she,  Madame  de  Sevigne, 
was  losing  her  mind,  for  no  one  could  live  in  the 
provinces  and  remain  sane,  poring  over  stupid 
books  and  sitting  over  fires. 

"  She  was  certain  I  should  sicken  and  die,  be- 
sides losing  the  tone  of  my  mind,"  laughed  Ma- 
dame de  Sevigne,  as  she  called  up  the  picture  of 
her  dissolution  and  rapid  disintegration :  "  and 
therefore  it  was  necessary  at  once  that  I  should 
come  up  to  Paris.  This  latter  command  Avas  de- 
livered in  the  tone  of  a  judge  of  the  Supreme 
Court.  The  penalty  of  my  disobedience  was  to  be 
her  ceasing  to  love  me.  I  was  to  come  up  to  Paris 
directly — on  the  minute ;  I  was  to  live  with  you, 
dear  duchesse ;  I  was  not  to  buy  any  horses  until 
spring ;  and,  best  of  all,  I  was  to  find  on  my  arri- 
val a  purse  of  a  thousand  crowns  which  would  be 
lent  me  without  interest !  What  a  proposition, 
mon  Dieu,  what  a  proposition !  To  have  no  house 
of  my  own,  to  be  dependent,  to  have  no  carriage, 
and  to  be  in  debt  a  thousand  crowns !  " 

As  Madame  de   Sevigne  lifted  her  hands  the 


216  THREE  NORMANDY  INNS. 

laces  of  her  sleeves  were  fairly  trembling-  with  the 
force  of  her  iudig'iiation.  There  were  certain 
things  that  always  put  her  in  a  passion,  and  Ma- 
dame de  La  Fayette's  peculiarities  she  had  found 
at  times  unendurable.  Her  listeners  had  followed 
her  narration  with  the  utmost  intensity  and  ab- 
sorption. AVlien  she  stopped,  their  eyes  met  in  a 
look  of  assenting  comment. 

"  It  was  perfectly  characteristic,  all  of  it !  She 
judged  you,  doubtless,  by  herself.  She  always 
seems  to  me,  even  now,  to  keep  one  eye  on  her 
comfort  and  the  other  on  her  purse !  " 

"  Ah,  dear  duchesse,  how  keen  you  are  !  "  laugh- 
ingly acquiesced  Madame  de  Sevigne,  as  with  a 
shrug  she  accepted  the  verdict — her  indignation 
melting  with  the  shrug.  "  And  how  right !  No 
woman  ever  drives  better  bargains,  without  moving 
a  finger.  From  her  invalid's  chair  she  can  conduct 
a  dozen  lawsuits.  She  spends  half  her  existence 
in  courting  death ;  she  caresses  her  maladies :  she 
positively  hugs  them  ;  but  she  can  always  be  mi- 
raculously resuscitated  at  the  word  money !  " 

"  Yes,"  added  with  a  certain  relish  Madame  de 
Kerman.  "And  this  is  the  same  woman  who 
must  be  forever  running  away  from  Paris  because 
she  can  no  longer  endure  the  exertion  of  talking, 
or  of  replying,  or  of  listening;  because  she  is 
wearied  to  extinction,  as  she  herself  admits,  of 
saying  good-morning  and  good-evening.  She 
must  hide  herself  in  some  pastoral  retreat,  Avhere 
simply,  as  she  says,  '  to  exist  is  enough ; '  where 
she  can  remain,  as  it  were,  miraculously  suspended 
between  heaven  and  earth !  " 


THREE  NORMANDY  INNS.  217 

A  ripple  of  amused  laughter  went  round  the 
little  group;  there  was  nothing"  these  ladies  en- 
joyed so  keenly  as  a  delicate  dish  of  gossip,  sea- 
soned with  wit,  and  stuffed  with  epigrams.  This 
talk  was  exactly  to  their  taste.  The  silence  and 
seclusion  of  their  surroundings  were  an  added 
stimulus  to  confidence  and  to  a  freer  interchange 
of  opinions  about  their  world.  Paris  and  Ver- 
sailles seemed  so  very  far  away ;  it  would  appear 
safe  to  say  almost  anything  about  one's  dearest 
friends.  There  was  nothing  to  remind  them  of 
the  restraints  of  levees,  or  the  penalty  indiscre- 
tion must  pay  for  folly  breathed  in  that  whisper- 
ing gallery — the  ritelle.  It  was  indeed  a  delight- 
ful hour  ;  altogether  an  ideal  situation. 

The  fire  had  burned  so  low  only  a  few  embers 
were  alive  now,  and  the  candles  were  beginning 
to  flicker  and  droop  in  the  sconces.  But  the  three 
ladies  refused  to  find  the  little  room  either  cold 
or  dark ;  their  talk  was  not  half  done  yet,  and 
their  muffs  would  keep  them  warm.  The  shadow 
of  the  deepening  gloom  they  found  delightfully 
provocative  of  confidences. 

After  a  short  pause,  while  Madame  de  Kermau 
busied  herself  with  tho  tongs  and  the  fagots,  try- 
ing to  reinvigorate  the  dying  flames,  the  duchesse 
asked,  in  a  somewhat  more  intimate  tone  than  she 
had  used  yet : 

"  And  the  duke— do  you  really  think  she  loved 
the  Duke  de  La  Kochefoucauld  1 " 

"  She  reformed  him,  dear  duchesse  ;  at  least  she 
always  proclaims  his  reform  as  the  justification  of 
her  love." 


218  THREE  NORMANDY  INNS. 

"  Toil — you  esteemed  him  yourself  very  highly, 
did  3'oii  not  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I  loved  him  tenderly ;  how  could  one  help 
it  ?  He  was  the  best  as  well  as  the  most  brilliant 
of  men  !  I  never  knew  a  tenderer  heart :  domes- 
tic joj's  and  sorrows  affected  him  in  a  way  to  ren- 
der him  incomparable.  I  have  seen  him  weep  over 
the  death  of  his  mother,  who  only  died  eig-ht  years 
before  him,  you  know,  with  a  depth  of  sincerity 
that  made  me  adore  him." 

"  He  must  in  truth  have  been  a  very  sincere  per- 
son." 

"  Sincere  !  "  cried  Madame  de  Sevig-ne,  her  ej-es 
flaming-.  "  Had  you  but  seen  his  deathbed !  His 
bearing  was  sublime !  Believe  me,  dear  friend, 
it  was  not  in  vain  that  M.  de  La  Rochefoucauld 
had  written  philosophic  reflections  all  his  life ; 
he  had  already  anticipated  his  last  moments  in 
such  a  way  that  there  was  nothing  either  new  or 
strange  in  death  when  it  came  to  him." 

"  Madame  de  La  Fayette  truly  mourned  him — 
don't  you  think  so  ?  You  were  with  her  a  great 
deal,  were  you  not,  after  his  death  ? " 

"I  never  left  her.  It  was  the  most  pitiable 
sight  to  see  her  in  her  loneliness  and  her  misery. 
You  see,  their  common  ill-health  and  their  seden- 
tary habits,  had  made  them  so  necessary  to  each 
other!  It  was,  as  it  were,  two  souls  in  a  single 
bodj'.  Nothing-  could  exceed  the  confidence  and 
charm  of  their  friendship  ;  it  was  incomparable. 
To  Madame  de  La  Fayette  his  loss  came  as  her 
doath-blow;  life  seems  at  an  end  for  her;  for 
where,  indeed,  can  she  find  another  such  friend,  or 


THREE  NORMANDY  INNS.  219 

sucli  intercourse,  such  sweetness  and  charm — such 
confidence  and  consideration  ?  " 

There  was  a  moment's  silence  after  Madame  de 
Sevig'ne's  eloquent  outburst.  The  eyes  of  the 
three  friends  were  lost  for  a  moment  in  the  twin- 
kling- flames.  The  duchesse  and  Madame  de  Ker- 
man  exchanged  meaning  glances. 

"  Since  the  duke's  death  her  thoughts  are  more 
and  more  turned  toward  religion.  I  hear  she  has 
been  fortunate  in  her  choice  of  directors,  has  she 
not  ?  Du  Guet  is  said  to  be  an  ideal  confessor 
for  the  authoress  of  '  La  Princesse  de  Cleves.' " 
There  was  just  a  suspicion  of  malice  in  the  du- 
chesse's  tones. 

"  Oh,  he  was  born  to  take  her  in  hand.  He 
knew  just  when  to  speak  with  authority,  and  when 
to  make  use  of  the  arts  of  persuasion.  He  wrote 
to  her  once,  you  remember :  '  You,  who  have  passed 
your  life  in  dreaming — cease  to  dream  !  You,  who 
have  taken  such  pride  unto  yourself  for  being  so 
true  in  all  things,  were  very  far,  indeed,  from  the 
truth — you  were  only  half  true — falsely  true.  Your 
godless  wisdom  was  in  reality  purely  a  matter  of 
good  taste  ! ' " 

"  What  audacity !  Bossuet  himself  could  not 
have  put  the  truth  more  nakedly."  The  duchesse 
was  one  of  those  to  whom  truths  were  novelties, 
and  unpleasant  ones. 

"Bossuet,  if  I  remember  rightly,  was  with  the 
Duke  de  La  Eochefoucauld  at  the  last,  was  he 
not  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  responded  Madame  de  Sevigne  ;  "  he  was 
with  him ;  he  administered  the  supreme  unction. 


220  THREE  NORMANDY  INNS. 

The  duke  was  in  a  beautiful  state  of  grace.  M. 
Vinet,  you  remember,  said  of  liim  that  he  died 
with  '  perfect  decorum.'  " 

"  Sjjeaking  of  dj'ing-  reminds  me  " — cried  sud- 
denly Madame  de  Sevig-ne — "  how  are  the  dukes 
hanging's  getting  on '?  " 

"They  begin,  the  duke  writes  me,  to  hang 
again  to-morrow,"  answered  the  duchesse,  with  a 
certain  air  of  disdain,  the  first  appearance  of  this 
weapon  of  the  great  now  coming  to  the  gr ancle 
dame's  aid.  Her  husband,  the  Duke  de  Chaulnes' 
trouble  with  his  revolutionary  citizens  at  Eennes 
was  a  subject  that  never  failed  to  arouse  a  feeling 
of  angry  contempt  in  her.  It  was  too  preposter- 
ous, the  idea  of  those  insolent  creatures  rising 
against  him,  their  rightful  duke  and  master  ! 

The  duchesse's  feeling  in  the  matter  was  fully 
shared  by  her  friends.  In  all  the  court  there  was 
but  one  opinion  in  the  matter — hanging  Mas  really 
far  too  good  for  the  wretched  creatures. 

"  Monsieur  de  Chaulnes,"  the  duchesse  went  on, 
with  ironical  contempt  in  her  voice,  "  still  goes  on 
punishing  Eennes !  " 

"  This  province  and  the  duke's  treatment  of  it 
will  serve  as  a  capital  example  to  all  others.  It 
will  teach  those  rascals,"  Madame  de  Kerman  con- 
tinued, in  lower  tones,  "  to  respect  their  gover- 
nors, and  not  to  throw  stones  into  their  gardens  !  " 

"  Fancy  that — the  audacity  of  throwing  stones 
into  their  duke's  garden!  Whj^,  did  you  know, 
the}^  actually — those  insolent  creatures  actually 
called  him — called  the  duke — '  gros  cochcni  ?  '  " 

All  three  ladies  gasped  in  horror  at  this  unpar- 


THREE  NORMANDY  INNS.  231 

alleled  instance  of  audacity ;  they  threw  up  their 
hands,  as  they  groaned  over  the  picture,  in  low 
tones  of  finished  elegance. 

"  It  is  little  wonder  the  duke  hangs  right  and 
left !  The  dear  duke — what  a  model  governor ! 
How  I  should  like  to  have  seen  him  sack  that  street 
at  Rennes,  with  all  the  ridiculous  old  men,  and  the 
women  in  childbirth,  and  the  children,  turned  out 
pele-mele !  And  the  hanging,  too — why,  hanging 
now  seems  to  me  a  positively  refreshing  j)erform- 
ance  !  "  And  Madame  de  Sevigne  laughed  with 
unstinted  gayety  as  at  an  excellent  joke. 

The  picture  of  Eennes  and  the  cruelty  dealt  its 
inhabitants  was  a  pleasant  picture,  in  the  contem- 
plation of  which  these  ladies  evidently  found 
much  delectation.  They  were  quiet  for  a  longer 
period  of  time  than  usual ;  they  continued  silent, 
as  they  looked  into  the  fire,  smiling;  the  liames 
there  made  them  think  of  other  flames  as  forms  of 
merited  punishment. 

"  A  curious  people  those  Bas  Bretons,"  finally 
ejaculated  Madame  de  Sevigne.  "  I  never  could 
understand  how  Bertrand  Duguesclin  made  them 
the  best  soldiers  of  his  day  in  France  !  " 

"  You  know  Lower  Brittany  very  well,  do  j'ou 
not,  dear  friend  1 " 

"  Not  so  well  as  the  coast.  Les  Rochers  is  in 
Upper  Brittany,  you  know.  I  know  the  south 
better  still.  Ah,  what  a  charming  journey  I 
once  took  along  the  Loire  with  my  friend  Bien- 
Bon,  the  Abbe  de  Coulanges.  We  found  it  the 
most  enchanting  country  in  the  world — the  coun- 
tr3^  of  feasts  and  of  famine  ;  feasts  for  us  and  fam- 


222  THREE  NORMANDY  INNS. 

ine  for  the  people.  I  remember  we  had  to  cross 
the  river ;  our  coach  was  placed  on  the  bar^e,  and 
we  were  rowed  along'  by  stout  peasants.  Throug-h 
the  glass  windows  of  the  coach  we  looked  out  at 
a  series  of  changing  i^ictures  —  the  views  were 
charming.  We  sat,  of  course,  entirely  at  our 
ease,  on  our  soft  cushions.  The  country  people, 
crowded  together  below,  were— ugh! — like  pigs  in 
straw." 

"  Was  Bien-Bon  with  j^ou  when  you  made  that 
little  excursion  to  St.  Germain  '^ ''  queried  the 
duchesse. 

"  Ah,  that  was  a  gay  night,"  joyously  resiDonded 
Madame  de  Sevigne.  "  How  well  we  amused  our- 
selves on  that  little  visit  that  we  paid  Madame 
de  Maintenon — when  she  was  only  Madame  Scar- 
ron." 

"  Was  she  so  handsome  then  as  the}^  say  she 
was — at  that  time  ^  " 

"  Yery  handsome  ;  she  was  g"ood,  too,  and  ami- 
able, and  easy  to  talk  to ;  one  talked  well  and 
readily  with  her.  She  was  then  only  the  gover- 
ness of  the  king's  bastards,  you  know — of  the 
children  he  had  had  by  Madame  de  Moi:tespan. 
That  was  the  first  step  toward  g"overniug  the 
king'.  Well,  one  night — the  night  to  which  you 
refer — I  remember  we  were  all  supping  with 
Madame  de  La  Fayette.  We  had  been  talking 
endlessly !  Suddenly  it  occurred  to  us  it  would  be 
a  most  amusing  adventure  to  take  Madame  Scar- 
ron  home,  to  the  very  last  end  of  the  Faubourg 
Saint  Germain,  far  beyond  where  Madame  de  La 
Fayette  lived — near  Yaugirard,  out  into  the  Bois, 


THREE  NORMANDY  INNS.  223 

in  the  country.  The  Abbe  came  too.  It  was  mid- 
night when  we  started.  The  house,  when  at  last 
we  reached  it,  we  found  large  and  beautiful,  with 
large  and  fine  rooms  and  a  beautiful  garden ;  for 
Madame  Scarron,  as  governess  of  the  king's  chil- 
dren, had  a  coach  and  a  lot  of  servants  and 
horses.  She  herself  dressed  then  modestly  and 
yet  magnificently,  as  a  woman  should, who  spent 
her  life  among  people  of  the  highest  rank.  We 
had  a  merry  outing,  returning  in  high  spirits, 
blessed  in  having  no  end  of  lanterns,  and  thus 
assured  against  robbers." 

"  She  and  Madame  de  La  Fayette  were  very 
close  friends,  I  remember,  during  that  time," 
mused  the  duchesse,  "  when  they  were  such  near 
neighbors." 

"  Yes,"  Madame  de  Sevigne  went  on,  as  unwear- 
ied now,  although  it  was  nearly  midnight,  as  in  the 
beginning  of  the  long*  evening.  "  Yes  ;  I  always 
thought  Madame  de  Maintenon's  satirical  little 
joke  about  Madame  de  La  Fayette's  bed  festooned 
with  gold — '  I  might  have  fifty  thousand  pounds 
income,  and  never  should  I  live  in  the  style  of  a 
great  lady ;  never  should  I  have  a  bed  festooned 
with  gold  like  Madame  de  La  Fayette ' — was  the 
beginning  of  their  rupture." 

"  All  the  same,  Madame  de  La  Fayette,  lying  on 
that  bed,  beneath  the  gold  hangings,  was  a  much 
more  simple  person  than  ever  was  Madame  de 
Maintenon  ! " 

"  Your  speaking  of  bed  reminds  me,  dear  ladies 
ours  must  be  quite  cold  by  this  time.  How  we 
have  chatted !     What  a  delightful  gossip  !     But 


224  THREE  NORMANDY  INNS. 

we  must  not  for^^fet  that  our  journey  to-morrow  is 
to  be  a  long-  one !  " 

The  duchesse  rose,  the  other  two  ladies  rising 
instantly,  observing-,  in  spite  of  the  intimate  rela- 
tions in  which  they  stood  toward  the  duchesse, 
the  deference  due  to  her  more  exalted  rank.  The 
latter  clapped  her  hands ;  outside  the  door  a 
shuffling'  and  a  low  groan  were  heard — the  groan 
came  from  the  sleepy  lackey,  roused  from  his 
deep  slumber,  as  he  uncoiled  himself  from  the 
close  knot  into  which  his  legs  and  body  were  knit 
in  the  curve  of  the  narrow  stairs. 

The  ladies,  a  few  seconds  later,  were  wending 
their  way  up  the  steep  turret  steps.  They  were 
l^receded  by  torches  and  followed  by  quite  a  long 
train  of  maids  and  lackej^s.  For  a  long  hour,  at 
least,  the  little  inn  resounded  with  the  sound  of 
hurrjnng  feet,  of  doors  closing  and  shutting ;  with 
the  echo  of  voices  giving  commands  and  of  others 
purring  in  sleepy  accents  of  obedience.  Then 
one  by  one  the  sounds  died  away ;  the  lights  went 
out  in  the  bedchambers ;  faint  flickerings  stole 
through  the  chinks  of  doors  and  windows.  The 
watchman  cried  out  the  hour,  and  the  gleam  of  a 
lantern  flashed  here  and  there,  illuminating  the 
open  court-yard.  The  cocks  crowed  shrilly  into 
the  night  air.  A  halberdier  turned  in  his  sleep 
where  he  lay,  on  some  straw  beneath  the  coach- 
shed,  his  halberd  rattling  as  it  struck  the  cobbles. 
And  over  the  whole — over  the  gentle  slumber  of 
the  great  ladies  and  the  sleep  of  beast  and  man — 
there  fell  the  peace  and  the  stillness  of  the  mid- 
night— of  that  midnight  of  long  ago. 


CHAPTER  XXn. 

A  NTNETEENTH-CENTUEY  BEEAKFAST. 

The  very  next  morning",  after 
the  rain,  and  the  vision  I 
had  had  of  Madame  de  Se- 
vigne,  conjured  up  by  my 
surrounding's  and  the  read- 
ing of  her  letters,  Monsieur 
Paul  paid  us  an  early  call.  He  came  to  beg  the 
loan  of  our  sitting-room,  he  said.  He  had  had  a 
despatch  from  a  coaching-party  from  Trouville ; 
they  were  to  arrive  for  breakfast.  The  whip  and 
owner  of  the  coach  was  a  great  friend  of  his,  he 
proffered  by  way  of  explanation — a  certain  count 
who  had  a  genius  for  friendship — one  who  also  had 
an  artist's  talent  for  admiring  the  beautiful.  He 
was  among  those  who  were  in  a  state  of  perpetual 
adoration  before  the  inn's  perfections.  He  made 
yearly  pilgrimages  from  his  chateau  above  Rouen 
to  eat  a  noon  breakfast  in  the  Chambre  des  Mar- 
mousets.  Now,  a  breakfast  served  elsewhere  than 
in  this  chamber  would  be,  from  his  point  of  view, 
to  have  journeyed  to  a  shrine  to  find  the  niche 
empty.  The  gift  that  was  begged  of  us,  therefore, 
was  the  loan  for  a  few  hours  of  the  famous  little 
room. 

In  less  than  a  half-hour  we  were  watching  the 


226  THREE  NORMANDY  INNS. 

entrance  of  tlie  coach  by  the  side  of  Madame  Le 
Mois.  We  were  all  three  seated  on  the  green 
bench. 

Faintly  at  first,  and  presently  gaining  in  dis- 
tinctness, came  the  fall  of  horses'  hoofs  and  the 
rnmble  of  wheels  along  the  highway.  A  little 
cavalcade  was  soon  passing  beneath  the  archway. 
First  there  dashed  in  two  horsemen,  who  had 
sprung  to  the  ground  almost  as  soon  as  their 
steeds'  hoofs  struck  the  paved  court -yard.  Then 
there  swept  by  a  jaunty  dog-cart,  driven  by  a  man- 
nish figure  radiantly  robed  in  white.  Swiftly  fol- 
lowing came  the  dash  and  jingle  of  four  coach - 
horses,  bathed  in  sweat,  rolling  the  vehicle  into 
the  court  as  if  its  weight  were  a  thing  of  air.  All 
save  one  among  the  gay  party  seated  on  the  high 
seats,  were  too  busy  with  themselves  and  their 
chatter,  to  take  heed  of  their  surroundings.  A 
lad}"  beneath  her  deep  parasol  was  busily  en- 
gaged in  a  gay  traffic  of  talk  with  the  groups  of 
men  peopling  the  back  seats  of  the  coach.  One 
of  the  men,  however,  was  craning  his  neck  beyond 
the  heads  of  his  companions ;  he  was  running  his 
eye  rapidly  up  and  down  the  long  inn  facade. 
Finally  his  glance  rested  on  us  ;  and  then,  with  a 
rush,  a  deep  red  mounted  the  man's  cheek,  as  he 
tore  off  his  derby  to  wave  it,  as  if  in  a  triumph  of 
discovery.  Renard  had  been  true  to  his  promise. 
He  had  come  to  see  his  friends  and  to  test  the 
famous  Sauterne.  He  flung  himself  down  from 
his  lofty  perch  to  take  his  seat,  entirely  as  a  mat- 
ter of  course,  beside  us  on  the  gi'een  bench. 

"  What  luck,  hey  ? — greatest  luck  in  the  world, 


THREE  NORMANDY  INNS.  227 

finding-  you  in,  like  this.  I've  been  in  no  end  of  a 
tremble,  fearing"  you'd  gone  to  Caen,  or  Falaise,  or 
somewhere,  and  that  I  shouldn't  see  you  after  all. 
Well,  how  are  you  ?  How  goes  it  ?  What  do  you 
think  of  old  Dives  and  Monsieur  Paul,  and  the 
rest  of  it  ?  I  see  you're  settled ;  you  took  the 
palace  chamber.  Trust  American  women — they 
know  the  best,  and  get  it." 

"  But  these  people,  who  are  thej^  and  how  did 
you —  ?  "  We  were  unfeig-nedly  glad  to  see  him, 
but  curiosity  is  a  passion  not  to  be  triiied  with — 
after  a  month  in  the  provinces. 

"  Oh — the  De  Troisacs  ?  Old  friends  of  mine 
— known  them  years.  Jolly  lot.  Charming  fel- 
low, De  Troisac — only  good  Frenchman  I've  ever 
known.  They're  just  off  their  yacht ;  saw  them 
all  yesterday  at  the  Trouville  Casino.  Said  they 
were  running  down  here  for  breakfast  to-day, 
asked  me,  and  I  came,  of  course."  He  laughed  as 
he  added :  "  I  said  I  should  come,  you  remember, 
to  get  some  of  that  Sauterne.  A  man  will  go  any 
distance  for  a  good  bottle  of  wine,  you  know." 

Meanwhile,  in  the  court-yard,  the  party  on  the 
coach,  by  means  of  ladders  and  the  helping  of  the 
grooms,  were  scrambling  down  from  their  seats. 
Eenard's  friend,  the  Comte  de  Troisac,  was  eas- 
ily picked  out  from  the  group  of  men.  He  was 
the  elder  of  the  party — stoutish,  with  frank  eyes 
and  a  smiling  mouth  ;  he  was  bustling  about  from 
the  gaunt  grooms  to  the  ladder,  and  from  ladder 
to  the  coach-seat,  giving  his  commands  right  and 
left,  and  executing  most  of  them  himself.  A  tall, 
slim  woman,  with  drooping  eyelids,  and  an  air  of 


22S  THREE  NORMANDY  INNS. 

extreme  elegance  and  of  cultivated  fatig^ue,  was 
also  easily  recognizable  as  the  countess.  It  took 
two  grooms,  two  of  the  gentlemen  guests,  and  her 
husband  to  assist  her  to  the  ground.  Her  passage 
down  the  steps  of  the  ladder  had  been  long  enough, 
however,  to  enable  her  to  display  a  series  of  pretty 
poses,  each  one  more  effective  than  the  others. 
When  one  has  an  instep  of  ideal  elevation,  Avhat 
is  the  use  of  being  born  a  Frenchwoman,  unless 
one  knows  how  to  make  use  of  opportunity  % 

From  the  dog-cart,  that  had  rattled  in  across 
the  cobbles  with  a  dash  and  a  spurt,  there  came 
quite  a  different  accent  and  pose.  The  whitish 
personage,  whom  we  had  mistakenly  supposed  to 
be  a  man,  wore  petticoats ;  the  male  attire  only 
held  as  far  as  the  waist  of  the  lady.  The  stiff 
white  shirt-front,  the  knotted  tie — a.  faultless  male 
knot — the  loose  driving- jacket,  with  its  sprig  of 
white  geranium,  and  the  round  straw-hat  worn  in 
mannish  fashion,  close  to  the  level  brows,  was  a 
costume  that  would  have  deceived  either  sex. 
Below  the  jacket  flowed  the  straight  lines  of  a 
straight  skirt,  that  no  further  conjectures  should 
be  rendered  necessary.  This  lady  had  a  high- 
bred air  of  singular  distinction,  accentuated  by  a 
tremendously  knowing  look.  She  was  at  once 
elegant  and  rakish  :  the  gamin  in  her  was  obvi- 
ously the  touch  of  caviare  to  season  the  woman  of 
fashion.  The  mixture  made  an  extraordinarily  at- 
tractive ensemble.  As  she  jumped  to  the  ground, 
throwing  her  reins  to  a  groom,  her  jumj)  was  a 
master-stroke ;  it  landed  her  squarely  on  her  feet ; 
even  as  she  struck  the  ground  her  hands  were 


THREE  NORMANDY  INNS.  229 

thrust  deeply  into  her  pockets.  The  man  seated 
beside  her,  who  now  leaped  out  after  her,  seemed 
timid  and  awkward  by  contrast  with  her  alert  pre- 
cision. This  couple  moved  at  once  toward  the 
bench  on  which  madame  was  seated.  With  the 
coming"  in  of  the  coach  and  the  cart  she  had 
risen,  waddling-  forward  to  meet  the  party.  Mon- 
sieur Paul  was  at  the  coach-wheels  before  the 
grooms  had  shot  themselves  down;  T>e  Troisac, 
with  eager  friendliness,  stretched  forth  a  hand 
from  the  top  of  his  seat,  exclaiming,  with  gay 
heartiness, 

"  Ah,  man  bon — comment  ca  va  ?  " 

The  mere  was  as  eagerly  greeted.  Even  the 
countess  dismissed  her  indifference  for  the  mo- 
ment, as  she  held  out  her  hand  to  Madame  Le 
Mois. 

"  Dear  Madame  Le  Mois — ^and  it  goes  well  with 
you  ?  .  And  the  gout  and  the  rheumatism,  they 
have  ceased  to  torment  you  ?  Quelle  bonne  nou- 
velle  !  And  here  are  the  dear  old  cocks  and  the 
wounded  bantam.  The  cockatoos — ah,  there  they 
are,  still  swinging  in  the  air !  Comme  c'esf  joli — et 
frais — et  que  Qa  sent  bon  !  " 

Madame  and  Monsieur  Paul  were  equally  effu- 
sive in  their  inquiries  and  exclamations — it  was 
clearly  a  meeting-  of  old  friends.  Madame  Le 
Mois'  face  was  meanwhile  a  studj\  The  huge 
surface  was  glistening  with  pleasure ;  she  was  un- 
feignedly  glad  to  see  these  Parisians : — but  there 
was  no  elation  at  this  meeting  on  such  easy  terms 
with  greatness.  Her  shrewdness  was  as  alive  as 
ever ;  she  was  about  to  make  money  out  of  the 


230  THREE  NORMANDY  INNS. 

visit — they  were  to  have  of  her  best,  but  they 
must  pay  for  it.  Between  her  rapid  fire  of  ques- 
tionings as  to  the  countess's  health  and  the  his- 
tory of  her  travels,  there  was  as  rapid  a  shower 
of  commands,  sometimes  shouted  out,  above  all 
the  hubbub,  to  the  cooks  standing-  gaping  in  the 
kitchen  doorway,  or  whispered  hoarsely  to  Ernes- 
tine and  Marianne,  who  were  flying  about  like 
wild  pigeons,  a  little  drunk  with  the  novelty  of 
this  first  breakfast  of  the  season. 

"  Allons,  mon  enfant — cours — cours — get  thy  linen, 
my  child,  and  the  silver  candelabres.  It  is  to  be 
laid  in  the  Marmousets,  thou  knowest.  Paul  will 
come  presently.  And  the  salads,  pluck  them  and 
bring  them  in  to  me — cours — cours." 

The  gi-eat  world  was  all  very  well,  and  it  was 
well  to  be  on  friendh^,  even  intimate  terms,  with  it : 
but,  DicH  .'  one's  own  bread  is  of  importance  too  ! 
And  the  countess,  for  all  her  delicacy,  was  a  bonne 
fourchette. 

The  countess  and  her  friend,  after  a  moment 
of  standing  in  the  court-yard,  of  patting  the  peli- 
can, of  trying  their  blandishments  on  the  fla- 
mingo, of  catching  up  the  bantam,  and  filling  the 
air  with  their  jjurring,  and  caressing,  and  in- 
cessant chatter,  passed  beneath  the  low  door  to 
the  inner  sanctum  of  madame.  The  two  ladies 
were  clearly  bent  on  a  few  moments  of  unre- 
served gossip  and  that  repairing  of  the  toilet 
which  is  a  religious  act  to  women  of  fashion  the 
world  over. 

In  the  court-yard  the  scene  was  still  a  brilliant 
one.     The  gayly  painted  coach  was  now  deserted. 


THREE  NORMANDY  INNS.  231 

It  stood,  a  chariot  of  state,  as  it  were,  awaiting  roy- 
alty ;  its  yellow  sides  gleamed  like  topaz  in  the 
suu.  The  grooms  were  unharnessing  the  leaders, 
that  were  still  bathed  in  the  white  of  their  sweat. 
The  count's  dove-colored  flannels  were  a  soft  mass 
against  the  snow  of  the  chef's  apron  and  cap  ;  the 
two  were  in  deep  consultation  at  the  kitchen  door. 
Monsieur  Paul  was  showing,  with  all  the  absorp- 
tion of  the  artist,  his  latest  Jumieges  carvings 
to  the  taller,  more  awkward  of  the  gentlemen,  to 
the  one  driven  in  by  the  mannish  beauty. 

The  cockatoos  had  not  ceased  shrieking  from 
the  very  beginning  of  the  hubbub  ;  nor  had  the 
squirrels  stopped  running  along  the  bars  of  their 
cage,  a-flutter  with  excitement.  The  peacocks 
trailed  their  trains  between  the  coach-wheels,  an- 
nouncing, squawkingly,  their  delight  at  the  advent 
of  a  larger  audience.  Above  the  cries  of  the  fowls 
and  the  shrieks  of  the  cocks,  the  chatter  of  human 
tongues,  the  subdued  murmur  of  the  ladies'  voices 
coming  through  the  open  lattice,  and  the  stamp  of 
horses'  hoofs,  there  swept  above  it  all  the  light 
June  breeze,  rustling  in  the  vines,  shaking  the 
thick  branches  against  the  wooden  facades. 

The  two  ladies  soon  made  their  appearance  in 
the  sunlit  court-yard.  The  murmur  of  their  talk 
and  their  laughter  reached  us,  along  with  the  frou- 
frou of  their  silken  petticoats. 

"  You  were  not  bored,  chere  enfant,  driving 
Monsieur  d'Agreste  all  that  long  distance  %  " 

The  countess  was  smiling  tenderly  into  her 
companion's  face.  She  had  stopped  her  to  read- 
just the  geranium  sprig  that  was  drooping  in  her 


232  THREE  NORMANDY  INNS. 

friend's  cover-coat.  The  smile  was  the  smile  of  a 
sympathiziug-  augel,  but  what  a  touch  of  hidcleu 
malice  there  was  in  the  notes  of  her  caressing 
voice!  As  she  repinned  the  &o?</o?i7? fere, she  g-ave 
the  dancing-  eyes,  that  were  brimming  with  the 
mirth  of  the  coming-  retort,  the  searching"  inquest 
of  her  glance. 

"  Bored !  Dieu,  que  non  ! "  The  black  little 
beauty  threw  back  her  throat,  laughing,  as  she 
rolled  her  great  eyes.  "  Bored — with  all  the  tricks 
I  was  playing  %  Fernande  !  pity  me,  there  was 
such  a  little  time,  and  so  much  to  do !  " 

"  So  little  time — only  fourteen  kilos  !  "  The 
countess  compressed  her  lips  ;  they  were  smiling 
no  longer. 

"  Ah,  but  you  see,  I  had  so  much  to  combat. 
You  had  a  whole  season,  last  summer,  in  which  to 
play  your  game,  your  solemn  game."  Here  the 
gay  young  widow  rippled  forth  a  jiearly  scale  of 
treble  laughter.  "  And  I  have  had  only  a  week, 
thus  far ! " 

"  Yes,  but  what  time  you  make  !  " 

And  this  time  both  ladies  laughed,  although, 
still,  only  one  laughed  well. 

"  Ah  !  those  women — how  they  love  each  other," 
commented  Eenard,  as  he  sat  on  the  bench, 
swinging  his  legs,  with  his  eyes  following  the 
two  vanishing  figures.  "  Only  women  who  are 
intimate — Parisian  intimates — can  cut  to  the  bone 
like  that,  with  a  surgeon's  dexterity." 

He  explained  then  that  the  handsome  brunette 
was  a  widow,  a  certain  Baronne  d'Autun,  noted  for 
her  hunting  and  her  conquests ;  the  last  on  the 


THREE  NORMANDY  INNS.  233 

latter  list  was  Monsieur  d'Agreste,  a  former  ad- 
mirer of  the  countess ;  he  was  somewhat  famous 
as  a  scientist  and  socialist,  so  good  a  socialist 
as  to  refuse  to  wear  his  title  of  duke.  The  other 
two  g-entlemen  of  the  part}^  who  had  joined  them 
now,  the  two  horsemen,  were  the  Comtes  de  Mirant 
and  de  Fonbriant.  These  latter  were  two  typical 
young-  swells  of  the  Jockey  Club  model ;  their 
vacant,  well-bred  faces  wore  the  correct  degree  of 
fashionable  pallor,  and  their  manners  appeared 
to  be  also  as  periect  as  their  glances  were  inso- 
lent. 

Into  these  vacant  faces  the  languid  countess 
was  breathing  the  inspiration  of  her  smile.  Enig- 
matic as  was  the  latter,  it  was  as  simjjle  as  an  in- 
fant's compared  to  the  occult  character  of  her 
glance.  A  wealth  of  complexities  lay  enfolded  in 
the  deep  eyes,  rimmed  with  their  mystic  darkened 
circlet — that  circle  in  which  the  Parisienne  frames 
her  experience,  and  through  which  she  pleads  to 
have  it  enlarged ! 

A  Frenchwoman  and  cosmetics !  Is  there  any 
other  combination  on  this  round  earth  more  sug- 
gestive of  the  comedy  of  high  life,  of  its  elegance 
and  of  its  perfidy,  of  its  finish  and  of  its  empti- 
ness ? 

The  men  of  the  party  wore  costumes  perilously 
suggestive  of  Opera  Bouffe  models.  Their  fingers 
were  richly  begemmed ;  their  watch-chains  were 
laden  with  seals  and  charms.  Any  one  of  the  cos- 
tumes was  such  as  might  have  been  chosen  by  a 
tenor  in  which  to  warble  effectively  to  a  souhrette 
on  the  boards  of  a  i:)rovincial  theatre ;  and  it  was 


234  THREE  NORMA:NDr  INNS. 

worn  by  these  fops  of  the  Jockey  Club  with  the 
air  of  its  being-  the  last  word  in  nautical  fashions. 
Better  than  their  costumes  were  their  voices  :  for 
what  speech  from  human  lips  pearls  itself  off  with 
such  crispness  and  finish  as  the  delicate  French 
idiom  from  a  Parisian  tongue  ? 

I  never  quite  knew  how  it  came  about  that  we 
were  added  to  this  gay  party  of  breakfasters. 
We  found  ourselves,  however,  after  a  high  skir- 
mish of  j)reliminary  presentations,  among"  the 
number  to  take  our  places  at  the  table. 

In  the  Chambre  des  Marmousets,  Monsieur 
Paul,  we  found,  had  set  the  feast  with  the  taste  of 
an  artist  and  the  science  of  an  arcliMeologist.  The 
table  itself  was  long  and  narrow,  a  genuine  fif- 
teenth-century table.  DoAvn  the  centre  ran  a  strip 
of  antique  altar-lace ;  the  sides  were  left  bare,  that 
the  lustre  of  the  dark  wood  might  be  seen.  In  the 
centre  was  a  deep  old  Caen  bowl,  with  grapes  and 
fuchsias  to  make  a  mound  of  soft  color.  A  pair 
of  seventeenth  -  century  candelabres  twisted  and 
coiled  their  silver  branches  about  their  rich  rr- 
pousse  columns ;  here  and  there  on  the  yellow  strip 
of  lace  were  laid  bunches  of  June  roses,  those  only 
of  the  rarer  and  older  varieties  having  been  chosen, 
and  each  was  tied  with  a  Louis  XV.  love-knot. 
Monsieur  Paul  was  himself  an  omniscient  figure 
at  the  feast ;  he  was  by  turns  ofliciating  as  butler, 
carving,  or  serving  from  the  side-tables ;  or  he 
was  crossing  the  court-yard  with  his  careful,  cat- 
like tread,  a  bottle  under  each  arm.  He  was  also 
constantly  appealed  to  by  Monsieur  d'Agreste  or 
the  count,  to  settle  a  dispute  about  the  age  of  the 


THREE  NORMANDY  INNS.  235 

china,  or  the  original  home  of  the  various  okl 
chests  scattered  about  the  room. 

"  Paul,  your  stained  giass  shows  up  well  in  this 
light,"  the  count  called  out,  wijDing  his  mustache 
over  his  soup-plate. 

"  Yes,"  answered  Monsieur  Paul,  as  he  went  on 
serving  the  sherry,  pausing  for  a  moment  at  the 
count's  glass.  "They  always  look  well  in  full 
sunlight.  It  was  a  piece  of  pure  luck,  getting 
them.  One  can  always  count  on  getting  hold  of 
tapestries  and  carvings,  but  old  glass  is  as  rare 
as " 

"  A  pretty  woman,"  interpolated  the  gay  young- 
widow,  with  the  air  of  a  connoisseur." 

"  Outside  of  Paris — you  should  have  added," 
gallantly  contributed  the  count.  Everyone  went 
on  eating  after  the  light  laughter  had  died  away. 

The  countess  had  not  assisted  at  this  brief  con- 
versation ;  she  was  devoting  her  attention  to  re- 
ceiving the  devotion  of  the  two  young  counts ; 
one  was  on  either  side  of  her,  and  both  gave 
every  outward  and  visible  sign  of  wearing  her 
chains,  and  of  wearing  them  with  insistance.  The 
real  contest  between  them  ajDpeared  to  be,  not  so 
much  which  should  make  the  conquest  of  the  lan- 
guid countess,  as  which  should  outflank  the  other 
in  his  compromising  demeanor.  The  countess, 
beneath  her  drooping  lids,  watched  them  with  the 
indulgent  indolence  of  a  lioness,  too  luxuriously 
lazy  to  spring. 

The  countess,  clearh^,  was  not  made  for  sun- 
light. In  the  courtyard  her  face  had  seemed 
chiefly  remarkable  as  a  triumph  of  cosmetic  treat- 


236  THREE  NORMANDY  INNS. 

ment  -,  here,  under  this  rich  glow,  the  purity  and 
delicacy  of  the  features  easily  placed  her  among- 
the  beauties  of  the  Parisian  world.  Her  eyes, 
now  that  the  languor  of  the  lids  was  disappearing- 
with  the  advent  of  the  wines,  were  magnificent ; 
her  use  of  them  was  an  open  avowal  of  her  own 
knowledge  of  their  splendor.  The  young  widow 
across  the  table  was  also  using  her  eyes,  but  in  a 
very  different  fashion.  She  had  now  taken  off  her 
straw  hat :  the  curly  crop  of  a  brown  mane  gave  the 
brilliant  face  an  added  accent  of  vigor.  The  chien 
de  race  was  the  dominant  note  now  in  the  muscu- 
lar, supple  body,  the  keen-edged  nostrils,  and  the 
intent  gaze  of  the  liquid  eyes.  These  latter  were 
fixed  with  the  fixity  of  a  savage  on  Charm.  She 
was  giving,  in  a  sweet  sibilant  murmur,  the  man 
seated  next  her — Monsieur  d'Agreste,  the  man  who 
refused  to  bear  his  title — her  views  of  the  girl. 

"  Those  Americans,  the  Americans  of  the  best 
type,  are  a  race  apart,  I  tell  you ;  we  have  nothing 
like  them  ;  we  condemn  them  because  we  don't  un- 
derstand them.  They  understand  us — thej^  read 
us " 

"Oh,  they  read  our  books — the  worst  of  them." 

"  Yes,  but  they  read  the  best  too  ;  and  the  worst 
don't  seem  to  hurt  them.  I'll  warrant  that  Mees 
Gay — that  is  her  name,  is  it  not  ? — has  read  Zola, 
for  instance ;  and  yet,  see  how  simple  and  inno- 
cent— yes — innocent,  she  looks." 

"  Yes,  the  innocence  of  experience — which  knows 
how  to  hide,"  said  Monsieur  d'Agreste,  with  a  slight 
shrug. 

"  Mees  Gay  !  "  the  countess  cried  out  across  the 


THREE  NORMANDY  INNS.  237 

table,  suddenly  waking-  from  her  somnolence  ;  she 
had  overheard  the  baroness  in  spite  of  the  low 
tone  in  which  the  dialogue  had  been  carried  on ; 
her  voice  was  so  mellifluously  sweet,  one  instinct- 
ively scented  a  touch  of  hidden  poison  in  it — "  Mees 
Gaj^,  there  is  a  question  beiug-  put  at  this  side  of 
the  table  you  alone  can  answer.  Pray  pardon  the 
impertinence  of  a  personal  question — but  we  hear 
that  American  young  ladies  read  Zola:  is  it 
true  ? " 

"  I  am  afraid  that  we  do  read  him,"  was  Charm's 
frank  answer.  "  I  have  read  him — but  my  reading" 
is  all  in  the  past  tense  now." 

"  Ah — you  found  him  too  highly  seasoned  ?  " 
one  of  the  young  counts  asked,  eagerly,  with  his 
nose  in  the  air,  as  if  scenting  an  indiscretion. 

"  No,  I  did  not  go  far  enough  to  get  a  taste  of 
his  horrors  ;  I  stopped  at  his  first  period." 

"And  what  do  you  call  his  first  period,  dear 
mademoiselle  ?  "  The  countess's  voice  was  still 
freighted  with  honey.  Her  husband  coug-hed  and 
gave  her  a  warning"  glance,  and  Renard  was  mov- 
ing uneasily  in  his  chair. 

"  Oh,"  Charm  answered  lig-htly,  "  his  best  pe- 
riod— when  he  didn't  sell." 

Everyone  laughed.  The  little  widow  cried  be- 
neath her  breath : 

"  Elle  a  de  l'esi)rit,  celle-la " 

"  £lle  en  a  de  trop,"  retorted  the  countess. 

"  Did  you  ever  read  Zola's  '  Quatre  Saisons  ? '  " 
Renard  asked,  turning"  to  the  count,  at  the  other 
end  of  the  table. 

No,  the  count  had  not  read  it — but  he  could 


238  THREE  NORMANDY  INN8. 

read  the  story  of  a  beautiful  nature  when  he  en- 
countered one,  and  presently  he  allowed  Charm  to 
see  how  absorbing"  he  found  its  perusal. 

"  Ah,  hien — et  tout  de  meme — Zola,  yes,  he  writes 
terrible  books;  but  he  is  a  good  man — a  model 
husband  and  father,"  continued  Monsieur  d'Ag-- 
reste,  addressing  the  table. 

"  AndDaudet — he  adores  his  wife  and  children," 
added  the  count,  as  if  with  a  determination  to  find 
only  goodness  in  the  world. 

"  I  wonder  how  posterity  will  treat  them  ?  They'll 
judge  their  lives  by  their  books,  I  presume." 

"  Yes,  as  we  judg-e  Rabelais  or  Voltaire " 

"  Or  the  English  Shakespeare  by  his  '  Hamlet.'" 

"  Ah  !  what  would  not  Voltaire  have  done  with 
Hamlet !  "  The  countess  was  beginning-  to  wake 
again. 

"  And  Moliere  ?  What  of  his  '  Misanthrope  ? ' 
There  is  a  finished,  a  human,  a  possible  Hamlet ! 
a  Hamlet  with  flesh  and  blood,"  cried  out  the 
younger  count  on  her  right.  "  Even  Mounet- 
Sully  could  do  nothing  with  the  English  Hamlet." 

"  Ah,  well,  Mounet-Sully  did  all  that  was  possible 
with  the  part.     He  made  Hamlet  at  least  a  lover!" 

"  Ah,  love  !  as  if,  even  on  the  stage,  one  be- 
lieved in  that  absurdity  any  longer ! "  was  the 
countess's  malicious  comment. 

"Then,  if  you  have  ceased  to  believe  in  love, 
why  did  you  go  so  religiously  to  Monsieur  Care's 
lectures  ?  "  cried  the  baroness, 

"  Oh,  that  dear  Caro  !  He  treated  the  passions 
so  delicately,  he  handled  them  as  if  they  were 
curiosities.     One  went  to  hear  his  lecture  on  Love 


THREE  NORMANDY  INNS.  239 

as  one  might  go  to  hear  a  treatise  on  the  pecu- 
liarities of  an  extinct  species,"  was  the  countess's 
quiet  rejoinder. 

"  One  should  believe  in  love,  if  only  to  prove 
one's  unbelief  in  it,"  murmured  the  young  count 
on  her  left. 

"  Ah,  my  dear  comte,  love,  nowadays,  like  nat- 
ure, should  only  be  used  for  decoration,  as  a  bit 
of  stage  setting,  or  as  stage  scenery." 

"A  moonlight  night  can  be  made  endurable, 
sometimes,"  whisjiered  the  count. 

"  A  dair  de  lune  that  ends  in  lune  de  miel,  that  is 
the  true  use  to  which  to  put  the  charms  of  Diana." 
It  was  Monsieur  d'Agreste's  turn  now  to  murmur 
in  the  baroness's  ear. 

"  Oh,  honey,  it  becomes  so  cloying  in  time,"  in- 
terpolated the  countess,  who  had  overheard ;  she 
overheard  everything.  She  gave  a  wearied  glance 
at  her  husband,  who  was  still  talking  vigorously 
to  Charm  and  Benard.  She  went  on  softly  :  "  It's 
like  trying  to  do  good.  All  goodness,  even  one's 
own,  bores  one  in  the  end.  At  Basniege,  for 
example,  lovely  as  it  is,  ideally  feudal,  and  with 
all  its  towers  as  erect  as  you  please,  I  find  this 
modern  virtue,  this  craze  for  charity,  as  tiresome 
as  all  the  rest  of  it.  Once  you've  seen  that  all 
the  old  women  have  woollen  stockings,  and  that 
each  cottage  has  fagots  enough  for  the  winter, 
and  your  role  of  benefactress  is  at  an  end.  In 
Paris,  at  least,  charity  is  sometimes  picturesque  ; 
poverty  there  is  tainted  with  vice.  If  one  be- 
lieved in  anything,  it  might  be  worth  while  to 
begin  a  mission  ;  but  as  it  is " 


240  THREE  NORMANDY  INNS. 

"  The  g-ospel  of  life,  according  to  you,  dear 
comtesse,  is  that  in  modem  life  there  is  no  real 
excitement  except  in  studying  the  very  best  way 
to  be  rid  of  it,"  cried  out  Renard,  from  the  bottom 
of  the  table. 

"  True ;  but  suicide  is  such  a  coarse  weapon," 
the  lady  answered,  quite  seriously ;  "so  vulgar 
now,  since  the  common  people  have  begun  to  use 
it.  Besides,  it  puts  your  adversary,  the  world,  in 
possession  of  j'our  secret  of  discontent.  No,  no. 
Suicide,  the  invention  of  the  nineteenth  century, 
goes  out  with  it.  The  only  refined  form  of  sui- 
cide is  to  bore  one's  self  to  death,"  and  she  smiled 
sweetly  into  the  young  man's  eyes  nearest  her. 

"  Ah,  comtesse,  you  should  not  have  parted  so 
early  in  life  with  all  your  illusions,"  was  Mon- 
sieur d'Agreste's  protest  across  the  table. 

"  And,  Monsieur  d'Agreste,  it  isn't  given  to  us 
all  to  go  to  the  ends  of  the  earth,  as  you  do,  in 
search  of  new  ones  !  This  friction  of  living  doesn't 
wear  on  you  as  it  does  on  the  rest  of  us." 

"  Ah,  the  ends  of  the  earth,  the}^  are  very  much 
like  the  middle  and  the  beginning  of  things. 
Man  is  not  so  very  different,  wherever  you  find 
him.  The  only  real  difference  lies  in  the  manner 
of  approaching  him.  The  scientist,  for  example, 
finds  him  eternally  fresh,  novel,  inspiring ;  he  is  a 
mine  only  as  yet  half-worked."  Monsieur  d'Ag- 
reste was  beginning  to  wake  up  ;  his  eyes,  hither- 
to, alone  had  been  alive ;  his  hands  had  been  busy, 
crunching  his  bread ;  but  his  tongue  had  been 
silent. 

"  Ah  —  h   science  !     Science    is    only    another 


THREE  NORMANDY  INNS.  241 

anaesthetic — it  merely  helps  to  kill  time.  It  is  a 
hobby,  like  any  other,"  was  the  countess's  re- 
joinder. 

"  Perhaps,"  courteously  returned  Monsieur  d'Ag-- 
reste,  with  perfect  sweetness  of  temper.  "But  at 
least,  it  is  a  hobby  that  kills  no  one  else.  And 
if  of  a  hobby  you  can  make  a  principle " 

"  A  principle  ?  "  The  countess  contracted  her 
brows,  as  if  she  had  heard  a  word  that  did  not 
please  her. 

"  Yes,  dear  lady  ;  the  wise  man  lays  out  his  life 
as  a  gardener  does  a  garden,  on  the  principle  of 
selection,  of  order,  and  with  a  view  to  the  succes- 
sion of  the  seasons.  You  all  bemoan  the  dulness 
of  life ;  you,  in  Paris,  the  tor^oor  of  ennui  stifles 
you,  you  cry.  On  the  contrary,  I  would  wish  the 
days  were  weeks,  and  the  weeks  months.  And 
why  %  Simply  because  I  have  discovered  the 
philosopher's  stone.  I  have  grasped  the  secret  of 
my  era.  The  comedy  of  rank  is  played  out :  the 
life  of  the  trifler  is  at  an  end ;  all  that  went  out 
with  the  Bourbons.  Individualism  is  the  new 
order.  To-day  a  man  exists  simjily  by  virtue  of 
his  own  effort — he  stands  on  his  own  feet.  It  is 
the  era  of  the  republican,  of  the  individual — sci- 
ence is  the  true  republic.  For  us  who  are  dis- 
placed from  the  elevation  our  rank  gave  us,  work 
is  the  watchword,  and  it  is  the  only  battle-cry  left 
us  now.  He  only  is  strong,  and  therefore  happy, 
who  perceives  this  truth,  and  who  marches  in 
step  with  the  modern  movement." 

The  serious  turn  given  to  the  conversation  had 
silenced  all  save  the  baroness.     She  had  listened 


242  THREE  NORMANDY  INNS. 

even  more  intently  than  the  others  to  her  friend's 
eloquence,  nodding  her  head  assentingly  to  all 
that  he  said.  His  philosophic  reflections  pro- 
duced as  much  effect  on  her  vivacious  excitability 
as  they  might  on  a  restless  Skye-terrier. 

"  Yes,  yes — he's  entirely  right,  is  Monsieur 
d'Agreste ;  he  has  got  to  the  bottom  of  things. 
One  must  keep  in  step  with  modernitj'- — one  must 
hefndesi^cle.  Comtesse,  you  should  hunt ;  there 
is  nothing  like  a  fox  or  a  boar  to  make  life  worth 
living.  It's  better,  infinitely  better,  than  a  pur- 
suit of  hearts ;  a  boar's  more  troublesome  than  a 
man." 

"  Unless  you  marry  him,"  the  countess  inter- 
rupted, ending  with  a  thrush-like  laugh.  When 
she  laughed  she  seemed  to  have  a  bird  in  her 
throat. 

"  Oh,  a  man's  heart,  it's  like  the  flag  of  a  de- 
fenceless country — an3^one  may  capture  it." 

The  countess  smiled  with  inefi'able  grace  into 
the  vacant,  amorous-ej^ed  faces  on  either  side  of 
her,  rising  as  she  smiled.  We  had  reached  des- 
sert now ;  the  coffee  was  being  handed  round. 
Everyone  rose ;  but  the  countess  made  no  move 
to  pass  out  from  the  room.  Both  she  and  the  bar- 
oness took  from  their  pockets  dainty  cigarette- 
cases. 

"  Vous  permettez?"  ix^\.edi  the  baroness,  leaning 
over  coquettishly  to  Monsieur  d'Agreste's  cigar. 
She  accompanied  her  action  with  a  charming 
glance,  one  in  which  all  the  woman  in  her  was 
uppermost,  and  one  which  made  Monsieur 
d'Agreste's  pale  cheeks  flush  like  a  boy's.     He 


THREE  NORMANDY  INNS.  243 

was  a  philosopher  and  a  scientist ;  but  all  his  sci- 
ence and  philosophy  had  not  saved  him  from  the 
barbed  shafts  of  a  certain  mischievous  little  g"od. 
He,  also,  was  visibly  hugging-  his  chains. 

The  party  had  settled  themselves  in  the  low 
divans  and  in  the  Henri  lY.  arm-chairs ;  a  few 
here  and  there  remained,  still  grouj^ed  about  the 
table,  with  the  freedom  of  pose  and  in  the  comfort 
of  attitude  smoking  and  coffee  bring  with  them. 

It  was  destined,  however,  that  the  hour  was  to 
be  a  short  one.  One  of  the  grooms  obsequiously 
knocked  at  the  door ;  he  whispered  in  the  count's 
ear,  who  advanced  quickly  toward  him,  the  news 
that  the  coach  was  waiting  ;  one  of  the  leaders — — 

"  Desolated,  my  dear  ladies — but  my  man  tells 
me  the  coach  is  in  readiness,  and  I  have  an  imper- 
tinent leader  who  refuses  to  stand,  when  he  is 
waiting,  on  anything  more  solid  than  his  hind 
legs.  Fernande,  my  dear,  we  must  be  on  the 
move.  Desolated,  dear  ladies — desolated — but  it's 
only  cm  revoir.  We  must  arrange  a  meeting  later, 
in  Paris " 

The  scene  in  the  court -yard  was  once  again  gay 
with  life  and  bristling  with  color.  The  coach  and 
the  dog-cart  shone  resplendent  in  the  slanting 
sun's  rays.  In  the  brighter  sunlight,  the  added 
glow  in  the  eyes  and  the  cheeks  of  the  brilliantly 
costumed  group,  made  both  men  and  women  seem 
younger  and  fresher  than  when  they  had  ap- 
peared, two  hours  since.  All  were  in  high  good 
humor  —the  wines  and  the  talk  had  warmed  the 
quick  French  blood.  There  was  a  merry  scramble 
for  the  top  coach-seats ;  the  two  young  counts  ex- 


244  THREE  NORMANDY  INNS. 

chaug-ed  their  seat  in  their  saddles  for  the  privi- 
lege of  holding-,  one  the  countess's  vinaigrette,  and 
the  other,  her  long-handled  parasol.  Renard  was 
beside  his  friend  De  Troisac ;  the  horn  rang  out, 
the  horses  started  as  if  stung,  dashing  at  their 
bits,  and  in  another  moment  the  great  coach  was 
being-  whirled  beneath  the  archway. 

"Alt  revoir — cm  revoir  !  "  was  cried  doAvn  to  us 
from  the  throne  -  like  elevation.  There  was  a 
pretty  waving  of  hands — for  even  the  countess's  dis- 
like melted  into  sweetness  as  she  bade  us  farewell.- 
There  were  answering-  cries  from  the  shrieking- 
cockatoos,  from  the  peacocks  who  trailed  their 
tails  sadly  in  the  dust,  from  the  cooks  and  the 
peasant  serving- women  who  had  assembled  to  bid 
the  distinguished  guests  adieu.  There  was  also  a 
sweeping  bow  from  Monsieur  Paul,  and  a  grunt 
of  contented  dismissal  from  Madame  Le  Mois. 

A  moment  after  the  departure  of  the  coach  the 
court-yard  was  as  still  as  a  convent  cloister. 

It  was  still  enough  to  hear  the  click  of  ma- 
dame's  fingers,  as  she  tapped  her  snuff-box. 

"  The  count  doesn't  see  any  better  than  he  did 
— toujours  mj/02)e,  lid"  the  old  woman  murmured  to 
her  son,  with  h  preg-nant  wink,  as  she  took  her 
snuff. 

■'  C'est  sa  faQon  cle  tout  voir,  au  contraire,  ma 
mere,"  significantly  returned  Monsieur  Paul,  with 
his  knowing  smile. 

The  mother's  shrug  answered  the  smile,  as  both 
mother  and  son  walked  in  different  directions — 
across  the  sunlit  court. 


A   LITTLE   JOURNEY   ALONG 
THE   COAST. 

CAEN,  BAYEUX,  ST.  LO,  COUTANCES. 


CHAPTEK  XXin. 


A   NIGHT   IN   A   CAEN   ATTIC. 


I  HAVE  always  found  the  act 
of  going-  away  contagious. 
Who  really  enjoys  being 
left  behind,  to  mope  in  a 
corner  of  the  world  others 
have  abandoned  ?  The 
gay  company  atoj)  of  the 
coach,  as  they  were  whirled 
beneath  the  old  archway, 
had  left  discontent  behind ; 
the  music  of  the  horn,  like 
that  played  by  the  Pied 
Piper,  had  the  magic  of 
making  the  feet  ache  to  follow  after. 

Monsieur  Paul  was  so  used  to  see  his  world  go 
and  come — to  greeting  it  with  civility,  and  to  as- 
sist at  its  departure  with  smiling  indifference — that 
the  announcement  of  our  OAvn  intention  to  desert 
the  inn  within  a  day  or  so,  was  received  with  un- 
flattering impassivity.  We  had  decided  to  take 
a  flight  along  the  coast  —  the  month  and  the 
weather  were  at  their  best  as  aids  to  such  adven- 
ture. W^e  hoped  to  see  the  Fete-Dieu  at  Caen. 
W^hy  not  push  on  to  Coutances,  where  the  Fete 
was  still  celebrated  with  a  mediaeval  splendor  ? 


248  THREE  NORMANDY  INNS. 

From  thence  to  the  great  Mont,  the  Mont  St.  Mi- 
chel, it  was  but  the  distance  of  a  good  steeds  gal- 
loping'— we  could  cover  the  stretch  of  country  be- 
tween in  a  day's  di-iving-,  and  catch,  who  knows  ? 
— Ijerhaps  the  June  pilgrims  climbing  the  Mont. 

"  Ah,  mesdames  !  there  are  duller  things  in  the 
world  to  endure  than  a  glimpse  of  the  Normandy 
coast  and  the  scent  of  June  roses  !  Idt/Ui(jueinent 
belle,  la  cote  a  ce  moment-ci  !  " 

This  was  all  the  regret  that  seasoned  Monsieur 
Paul's  otherwise  g'racious  and  most  graceful  of 
farewells.  Why  cannot  we  all  attain  to  an  innkeep- 
er's altitude,  as  a  point  of  view  from  which  to  look 
out  upon  the  world  ?  AVhy  not  emulate  his  calm, 
w^hen  iseople  who  have  done  with  us  turn  their 
backs  and  stalk  away  %  Why  not,  like  him,  count 
the  pennies  as  not  all  the  payment  received  when 
a  pleasure  has  come  which  cannot  be  footed  \x\i  in 
the  bill  ? 

The  entire  company  of  the  inn  household  was 
assembled  to  see  us  start.  Not  a  white  mouse  but 
was  on  duty.  The  cockatoos  performed  the  most 
perilous  of  their  trapeze  accomi^lishments  as  a  last 
tribute  ;  the  doves  cooed  mournfully ;  the  mon- 
keys ran  like  frenzied  spirits  along  their  gratings 
to  see  the  very  last  of  us.  Madame  Le  Mois  consid- 
erately carried  the  bantam  to  the  archway,  that 
the  lost  joy  of  strutting  might  be  replaced  by  the 
pride  of  jjreferment  above  its  fellows. 

"  Adieu,  mesdames." 

"  Au  revoir — you  will  return — tout  le  mondere- 
vient — Guillaume  le  Conquerant,  like  Caesar,  con- 
quers once  to  hold  forever — remember " 


THREE  NORMANDY  INNS.  249 

From  Monsieur  Paul,  in  quieter,  riclier  tones, 
came  liis  true  farewell,  the  one  we  had  looked  for : 

"The  evening's  in  the  Marmousets  will  seem 
lonely  when  it  rains — you  must  g'ive  us  the  hope 
of  a  quick  return.  Hope  is  the  food  of  those  who 
remain  behind,  as  we  Normans  say  !  " 

The  archway  darkened  the  sod  for  an  instant ; 
the  next  we  had  jjassed  out  into  the  broad  high- 
way. Jean,  in  his  blouse,  w^th  Suzette  beside 
him,  both  jolting  along-  in  the  lumbering  char-a- 
banc,  stared  out  at  us  with  a  vacant-eyed  curiosity. 
We  were  only  two  travellers  like  themselves,  along- 
a  dusty  roadway,  on  our  way  to  Caen  ;  we  were  of 
no  particular  importance  in  the  landscape,  we  and 
our  rickety  little  phaeton.  Yet  only  a  moment 
before,  in  the  inn  court-yard,  we  had  felt  ourselves 
to  be  the  pivotal  centre  of  a  world  wholly  peopled 
with  friends !  This  is  what  comes  to  all  men  who 
live  under  the  modern  curse — the  double  curse  of 
restlessness  and  that  itching  for  novelty,  which 
made  the  old  Greek  longing  for  the  unknown 
deity — which  is  also  the  only  honest  prayer  of  so 
many,/??i  de  siecle  souls! 

Besides  the  dust,  there  were  other  thing's  abroad 
on  the  high-road.  What  a  lot  of  June  had  got 
into  the  air !  The  meadows  and  the  orchards  were 
exuding-  perfumes ;  the  hedge-rows  were  so  many 
yards  of  roses  and  wild  grajje-vines  in  blossom. 
The  sea-smells,  aromatic,  pungent,  floated  inland 
to  be  married,  in  hot  haste,  to  a  perfect  harem  of 
clover  and  locust  scents.  The  charm  of  the  coast 
was  enriched  by  the  homely,  familiar  scenes  of 
farm-house  life.     All  the  country  between  Dives 


250  THREE  NORMANDY  INNS. 

and  Caen  seemed  one  vast  farm,  beautifully  tilled, 
with  its  meadow-lands  dipping-  seaward.  For 
several  miles,  perlia]os,  the  ag-ricultural  note  alone 
would  be  the  dominant  one,  with  the  fields  full  of 
the  old,  the  eternal  surprise — the  dawn  of  young 
summer  rising  over  them.  Down  the  sides  of 
the  low  hills,  the  polychrome  grain  waved  be- 
neath the  touch  of  the  breeze  like  a  moving  sea. 
Many  and  vast  were  the  Hat-lands ;  they  were 
wide  vistas  of  color :  there  were  fields  that  were 
scarlet  with  the  pomp  of  poppies,  others  tinged 
to  the  yellow  of  a  Celestial  by  the  feathery  mus- 
tard ;  and  still  others  blue  as  a  sapphire's  heart 
from  the  dye  of  millions  of  bluets.  A  dozen  small 
rivers — or  perhaps  it  was  only  one — coiled  and 
twisted  like  a  cobra  in  sinuous  action,  in  and  out 
among  the  pasture  and  sea-meadows. 

As  we  ijassed  the  low,  bushy  banks,  we  heard 
the  babel  of  the  washerwomen's  voices  as  they 
gossiped  and  beat  their  clothes  on  the  stones.  A 
fisherman  or  two  gave  one  a  hint  that  idling  was 
understood  here,  as  elsewhere,  as  being  a  fine  art 
for  those  who  possess  the  talent  of  never  being 
pressed  for  time.  A  peasant  had  brought  his 
horse  to  the  bank ;  the  river,  to  both  peasant  and 
Percheron,  was  evidently  considered  as  a  personal 
IDossession — as  are  all  rivers  to  those  who  live 
near  them.  There  was  a  naturalness  in  all  the  life 
abroad  in  the  fields  that  gave  this  Normandy  high- 
road an  incomparable  charm.  An  Arcadian  calm, 
a  certain  patriarchal  simplicity  reigned  beneath  the 
trees.  Children  trudged  to  the  river  bank  with 
pails  and  pitchers  to  be  filled ;  women,  with  rakes 


THREE  NORMANDY  INNS.  251 

and  scythes  in  hand,  crept  down  from  the  upper 
fields  to  season  their  mid-day  meal  with  the  cooling- 
Avhiff  of  the  river  and  sea  air.  Children  tugged  at 
their  skirts.  In  two  feet  of  human  life,  with  ker- 
chief tied  under  chin,  the  small  hands  carrying" 
a  huge  bunch  of  cornHowers,  how  much  of  great 
g-ravity  there  may  be !  One  such  rustic  sketch 
of  the  future  peasant  was  seriously  carrying*  its 
bouquet  to  another  small  edition  seated  in  a  grove 
of  poppies  ;  it  might  have  been  a  votive  offering. 
Both  the  children  seated  themselves,  a  very  ear- 
nest conversation  ensuing-.  On  the  hilltop,  near 
by,  the  father  and  mother  were  also  conversing, 
as  they  bent  over  their  scythes.  Another  picture 
was  wheeling  itself  along"  the  river  bank  ;  it  was  a 
farmer  behind  a  hug"e  load  of  green  g-rass ;  atop 
of  the  g"rasses  two  moon-faced  children  had  laps 
and  hands  crowded  with  field  flowers.  Behind 
them  the  mother  walked,  with  a  rake  slung  over 
her  shoulder,  her  short  skirts  and  scant  draperies 
giving  to  her  step  a  noble  freedom.  The  brush 
of  Yollon  or  of  Breton  would  have  seized  upon 
her  to  embody  the  type  of  one  of  their  rustic 
beauties,  that  type  whose  mingled  fierceness  and 
g-race  make  their  peasants  the  rude  goddesses  of 
the  plough. 

Even  a  rustic  river  wearies  at  last  of  wandering, 
as  an  occupation.  Miles  back  we  had  left  the 
sea ;  even  the  hills  had  stopped  a  full  hour  ago, 
as  if  they  had  no  taste  for  the  rivalry  of  cathedral 
spires.  Behold  the  river  now,  coursing  as  se- 
dately as  the  high-road,  between  two  intermina- 
ble lines  of  poplars.     Far  as  the  eye  could  reach 


252  THREE  NORMANDY  INNS. 

stretched  a  wide,  great  plain.  It  was  flat  as  an 
old  woman's  palm:  it  was  also  as  fertile  as  the 
cit}^  sitting-  in  the  midst  of  its  luxuriance  has  been 
rich  in  history. 

"  Cepays  est  ires  beau,  et  Caen  la  plus  JoUe  ville,  la 
plus  avenanfe,  la  plus  gate,  la  mieux  situee,  les  plus 
belles  ru£s,  les  plus  beaux  bdtiments,  les  plus  belles 
eglises " 

There  was  no  doubt,  Charm  added,  as  she  re- 
peated the  lady's  verdict,  of  the  opinion  Madame 
de  Sevigne  had  formed  of  the  town.  As  we  drove, 
some  two  hundred  years  later,  through  the  Caen 
streets,  the  charm  we  found  had  been  perpet- 
uated, but  alas !  not  all  of  the  beauty.  At  first  we 
were  entirely  certain  that  Caen  had  retained  its 
old  loveliness  ;  the  outskirts  were  tricked  out  with 
the  bloom  of  gardens  and  with  old  houses  brave 
in  their  armor  of  vines.  The  meadows  and  tlie 
great  trees  of  the  plain  were  partly  to  blame  for 
this  illusion ;  they  yielded  their  place  grudgingly 
to  the  cobble-stoned  streets  and  the  height  of 
dormer  windows. 

To  come  back  to  the  world,  even  to  a  provincial 
world,  after  having  lived  for  a  time  in  a  corner,  is 
certain  to  evoke  a  ^pleasurable  feeling  of  elation. 
The  streets  of  Caen  were  by  no  means  the  liveliest 
we  had  driven  into ;  nor  did  the  inhabitants,  as  at 
Villerville,  turn  out  en  masse  to  welcome  us.  The 
streets,  to  be  quite  truthful,  were  as  sedately  quiet 
as  any  thoroughfares  could  well  be,  and  proudly 
call  themselves  boulevards.  The  stony-faced  gray 
houses  presented  a  singularly  chill  front,  consid- 
ering their  nationality.     But  neither  the  pallor  of 


THREE  NORMANDY  INNS.  253 

the  streets  nor  their  aspect  of  provincial  calm  had 
jjower  to  damioeu  the  sense  of  our  having  returned 
to  the  world  of  cities.  A  girl  issuing  from  a  door- 
way with  a  netted  veil  drawn  tightly  over  her  rosy 
cheeks,  and  the  curve  of  a  Parisian  bodice,  imme- 
diately invested  Caen  with  a  metropolitan  impor- 
tance. 

The  most  courteous  of  innkeepers  was  bending 
over  our  carriage-door.  He  was  desolated,  but 
his  inn  was  already  full ;  it  was  crowded  to  reple- 
tion with  people  ;  surelj^  these  ladies  knew  it  was 
the  week  of  the  races  ?  Caen  was  as  crowded  as 
the  inn ;  at  night  many  made  of  the  open  street 
their  bed ;  his  own  court-yard  was  as  filled  with 
men  as  with  farm- wagons.  It  was  altogether 
hopeless  as  a  situation ;  as  a  welcome  into  a 
strange  city,  I  have  experienced  none  more  arctic. 
I  had,  however,  forgotten  that  I  was  travelling 
with  a  conqueror;  that  when  Charm  smiled  she 
did  as  she  pleased  with  her  world.  The  innkeeper 
was  only  a  man  ;  and  since  Adam,  when  has  any 
member  of  that  sex  been  known  to  say  "  No  "  to  a 
pretty  woman  ?  This  French  Adam,  when  Charm 
parted  her  lips,  showing  the  snow  of  her  teeth, 
found  himself  suddenly,  miraculously,  endowed 
with  a  fragment  of  memory.  Tiens,  he  had  for- 
gotten !  that  very  morning  a  corner  of  the  attic — 
un  bout  du  tent — had  been  vacated.  If  these  ladies 
did  not  mind  mounting  to  a,grenier — an  attic,  com- 
fortable, although  still  only  an  attic  ! 

The  one  dormer  window  was  on  a  level  with  the 
roof-tops.  We  had  a  whole  company  of  "  belles 
voisines,"  a  trick  of  neighborliness  in  windows  the 


254  THREE  NORMANDY  INNS. 

quick  French  wit,  years  ago,  was  swift  to  name. 
These  "  neighbors  "  were  of  every  order  and  pat- 
tern. All  the  world  and  his  mother-in-law  were 
gone  to  the  races ; — and  yet  every  window  was 
playing  a  different  scene  in  the  comedy  of  this  life 
in  the  sky.  Who  does  not  know — and  love — a 
French  window,  the  higher  up  in  the  world  of  air 
the  better  ?  There  are  certain  to  be  plants,  rows 
of  them  in  pots,  along  the  wide  sill ;  one  can 
count  on  a  bullfinch  or  a  parrot,  as  one  can  on  the 
hehes  that  appear  to  be  born  on  purpose  to  jioke 
their  fingers  in  the  cages ;  there  is  certain  also 
to  be  another  cage  hanging  above  the  flowers — 
one  filled  with  a  fresh  lettuce  or  a  cabbage-leaf. 
There  is  usually  a  snowy  curtain,  fringed  :  just  at 
the  parting  of  the  draiJeries  an  old  woman  is 
always  seated,  with  chin  and  nose-tip  meeting, 
her  bent  figure  rounding  over  the  square  of  her 
knitting-needles. 

It  was  such  a  window  as  this  that  made  us  feel, 
before  our  bonnets  were  laid  aside,  that  Caen  was 
glad  to  see  us.  The  window  directly  opposite 
was  wide  open.  Instead  of  one  there  were  half  a 
dozen  songsters  aloft :  we  were  so  near  their  cages 
that  the  cat-bird  whistled,  to  call  his  master  and 
mistress  to  witness  the  intrusion  of  these  stran- 
gers. The  master  brought  a  hot  iron  along — he 
was  a  tailor  and  was  just  in  the  act  of  pressing  a 
seam.  His  wife  was  scraping  carrots,  and  she 
tucked  her  bowl  between  her  knees  as  she  came  to 
stand  and  gaze  across.  A  cry  rose  up  within  the 
low  room.  Some  one  else  wished  to  see  the  new- 
comers.     The  tailor  laid  aside  his  iron  to  lift 


THREE  NORMANDY  INNS.  255 

proudly,  far  out  beyond  the  cages,  tlie  fattest, 
rosiest  offspring-  that  ever  was  born  in  an  attic. 
The  babe  smote  its  hands  for  pure  joy.  We  were 
better  than  a  broken  doll — we  were  alive.  The 
family  as  a  family  accepted  us  as  one  among  them. 
The  man  smiled,  and  so  did  his  wife.  Presently 
both  nodded  graciouslj',  as  if,  understanding  the 
cause  of  our  intrusion  on  their  aerial  privacy,  they 
wished  to  present  us  with  the  compliment  of  their 
welcome.  The  manners  among  these  garret-win- 
dows, we  murmured,  were  really  uncommonly 
good. 

"  Bonjour,  mesdames  !  "  It  was  the  third  time 
the  woman  had  passed,  and  we  were  still  at  the 
window.     Her  husband  left  his  seam  to  join  her. 

"  Ces  dames  are  not  accustomed  to  such  heights 
— d  ces  hauteurs — peuf-efre  ?" 

The  ladies  in  truth  were  not,  unhappily,  always 
so  well  lodged  :  from  this  height  at  least  one  could 
hoi^e  to  see  a  city. 

"  Ah!  ha  !  c'esf  gai  jxir  icl,  n'est-cepas  ?  One  has 
the  sun  all  to  one's  self,  and  air !  Ah  !  for  fresh- 
ness one  must  climb  to  an  attic  in  these  days,  it 
appears." 

It  was  impossible  to  be  more  contented  on  a 
height  than  was  this  family  of  tailors  ;  for  when 
not  cooking,  or  washing,  or  tossing  the  "  hehe  "  to 
the  birds,  the  wife  stitched  and  stitched  all  her 
husband  cut,  besides  taking  a  turn  at  the  family 
socks.  Part  of  this  contentment  came,  no  doubt, 
from  the  variety  of  shows  and  amusements  with 
which  the  family,  as  a  family,  were  perpetually  sup- 
plied.   For  workers,  there  were  really  too  many  so- 


256  THREE  NORMANDY  INNS. 

cial  distractions  abroad  in  the  streets  ;  it  was  almost 
impossible  for  the  two  to  meet  all  the  demands 
on  their  time.  Now  it  was  the  jing-le  of  a  horse's 
bell-collar  ;  the  tailor,  between  two  snips  at  a  col- 
lar, must  see  who  was  stopping  at  the  hotel  door. 
Later  a  horn  sounded  ;  this  was  only  the  fish-ven- 
der, the  wife  merely  bent  her  head  over  the  flow- 
ers to  be  quite  sure.  Next  a  trumiaet,  clear  and 
strong-,  rang-  its  notes  up  into  the  roof -eaves ;  this 
was  something  bebe  must  see  and  hear — all  three 
were  bending  at  the  first  throbbing  touch  of  that 
music  on  the  still  air,  to  see  whence  it  came.  Thus 
you  see,  even  in  the  jDrovinces,  in  a  French  street, 
something  is  quite  certain  to  happen  ;  it  all  de- 
pends on  the  choice  one  makes  in  life  of  a  window 
— of  being  rightly  placed — whether  or  not  one 
finds  life  dull  or  amusing.  This  tailor  had  the 
talent  of  knowing  where  to  stand,  at  life's  corner — 
for  him  there  was  a  ceaseless  procession  of  excite- 
ments. 

It  may  be  that  our  neighbor's  talent  for  seeing 
was  catching.  It  is  certain  that  no  city  we  had 
ever  before  looked  out  upon  had  seemed  as  crowded 
with  sights.  The  whole  history  of  Caen  was  writ 
in  stone  against  the  blue  of  the  sky.  Here,  below 
us,  sat  the  lovely  old  town,  seated  in  the  grasses  of 
her  plain.  Yonder  was  her  canal,  as  an  artery  to 
keep  her  pulse  bounding  in  response  to  the  sea ; 
the  ship -masts  and  the  drooping  sails  seemed 
strange  companions  for  the  great  trees  and  the 
old  garden  walls.  Those  other  walls  William  built 
to  cincture  the  city,  Froissart  found  three  centu- 
ries later  so  amazingly  "  strong,  full  of  drapery  and 


THREE  NORMANDY  INNS.  257 

merchandise,  rich  citizens,  noble  dames,  damsels, 
and  fine  chnrches,"  for  this  girdle  of  the  Conquer- 
or's great  bastions  the  eye  looks  in  vain.  But  Will- 
iam's vow  still  proclaims  its  fulfilment ;  the  spire 
of  I'Abbaye  aux  Hommes,  and  the  Romanesque 
towers  of  its  twin,  I'Abbaye  aux  Dames,  face  each 
other,  as  did  William  and  Mathilde  at  the  altar — 
that  union  that  had  to  be  expiated  by  the  penance 
of  building  these  stones  in  the  air. 

Commend  me  to  an  attic  window  to  put  one  in 
sympathetic  relations  with  cathedral  spires  !  At 
this  height  we  and  they,  for  a  part  of  their  flight 
upward,  at  least,  were  on  a  common  level — and 
we  all  know  what  confidences  come  about  from  the 
accident  of  propinquity.  They  seemed  to  assure 
us  as  never  before  when  sitting  at  their  feet,  the 
difiiculties  they  had  overcome  in  climbing  heaven- 
ward. Every  stone  that  looked  down  upon  the 
city  wore  this  look  of  triumph. 

In  the  end  it  was  this  Caen  in  the  air — it  was  this 
aerial  city  of  finials,  of  towers,  of  peaked  spires,  of 
carved  chimneys,  of  tree-tops  over  which  the  clouds 
rode ;  of  a  plain,  melting — like  a  sea — into  the 
mists  of  the  horizon ;  this  high,  bright  region 
peopled  with  birds  and  pigeons ;  of  a  sky  tender, 
translucent,  and  as  variable  as  human  emotions ; 
of  an  air  that  was  rapture  to  breathe,  and  of  nights 
in  which  the  stars  were  so  close  they  might  almost 
be  handled ;  it  was  this  free,  hilly  city  of  the  roofs 
that  is  still  the  Caen  I  remember  best. 

There  were  other  features  of  Caen  that  were 
good  to  see,  I  also  remember.  Her  street  expres- 
sion, on   the  whole,  was  very  pleasing.     It  was 


/ 


258  THREE  KORMANDT  INNS. 

singularly  calm  and  composed,  even  for  a  city  in  a 
plain.  But  the  quiet  came,  doubtless,  from  its  pop- 
ulation being-  away  at  the  races.  The  few  towns- 
people who,  for  obvious  reasons,  Avere  staj^-at- 
homes,  were  uncommonl}^  civil ;  Caen  had  evidently 
preserved  the  tradition  of  good  manners.  An 
army  of  cripples  was  in  waiting  to  point  tlie  way 
to  the  church  doors ;  a  regiment  of  beggars  was 
within  them,  with  nets  cast  already  for  the  catch- 
ing of  the  small  fry  of  our  pennies.  In  the  gay, 
geranium-lit  garden  circling  the  side  walls  of  Bt. 
Pierre  there  were  many  legless  soldiers ;  the  old 
houses  we  went  to  see  later  on  in  the  high  street 
seemed,  by  contrast,  to  have  survived  other  wars, 
those  of  the  Directory  and  the  Mountain,  with  a 
really  scandalous  degree  of  good  fortune.  On  our 
way  to  a  still  greater  church  than  St.  Pierre,  to 
the  Abbaye  aux  Dames,  that,  like  the  queen  who 
built  her,  sits  on  the  throne  of  a  hill — on  our  way 
thither  we  passed  innumerable  other  ancient  man- 
sions. None  of  these  were  down  in  the  guide- 
books :  they  were,  therefore,  invested  with  the 
deeper  charm  of  personal  discovery.  Once  away 
from  the  little  city  of  the  shops,  the  real  Caen 
came  out  to  greet  us.  It  was  now  a  gray,  sad, 
walled  town ;  behind  the  walls,  level-browed  Fran- 
cis I.  windows  looked  gravely  over  the  tufts  of  ver- 
dure ;  here  was  an  old  gateway  ;  there  what  might 
once  have  been  a  portcullis,  now  only  an  arched 
wreath  of  vines ;  still  beyond,  a  group  of  severe- 
looking  mansions  with  great  iron  bound  windows 
presented  the  front  of  miniature  fortresses. 
And  everywhere  gardens  and  gardens. 


THREE  NORMANDY  INNS.  259 

Turn  where  you  would,  you  would  only  turn  to 
face  verdure,  foliage,  and  masses  of  flowers.  The 
hig"h  walls  could  neither  keep  back  the  odors  nor 
hide  the  luxuriance  of  these  Caen  g-ardens.  These 
must  have  been  the  streets  that  bewitched  Madame 
de  Sevig-ne.  Through  just  such  a  maze  of  foliag-e 
Charlotte  Corday  has  also  walked,  again  and  again, 
with  her  wonderful  face  aflame  with  her  great  pur- 
pose, before  the  purpose  ripened  into  the  dagger 
thrust  at  Marat's  bared  breast — that  avenging  Angel 
of  Beauty  stabbing  the  Beast  in  his  bath.  Auber, 
with  his  Anacreontic  ballads  in  his  young  head, 
would  seem  more  fittingly  framed  in  this  old  Caen 
that  runs  up  a  hill-side.  But  women  as  beautiful 
as  Marie  Stuart  and  the  Corday  can  deal  safely  in 
the  business  of  assassination,  the  world  will  al- 
ways continue  to  aureole  their  pictures  with  a  gar- 
land of  roses. 

The  Abbaye  on  its  hill  was  reached  at  last.  All 
Caen  lay  below  us ;  from  the  hillside  it  flowed 
as  a  sea  rolls  away  from  a  great  ship's  sides. 
Down  below,  far  below,  as  if  buttressing  the  town 
that  seemed  rushing  away  recklessly  to  the  waste 
of  the  plains,  stands  the  Abbaye's  twin-brother, 
the  Aux  Hommes.  Plains,  houses,  roof  -  tops, 
spires,  all  were  swimming  in  a  sea  of  golden  light ; 
nothing  seemed  quite  real  or  solid,  so  vast  was  the 
prospect  and  so  ethereal  was  the  medium  through 
which  we  saw  it.  Perhaps  it  was  the  great  con- 
trast between  that  shimmering,  unstable  city  be- 
low, that  reeked  and  balanced  itself  like  some  hu- 
man creature  whose  dazzled  vision  had  made  its 
footing  insecure — it  may  be  that  it  was  this  note 


260  THREE  NORMANDY  INNS. 

of  contrast  which  invested  this  vast  structure  be- 
striding- the  hill,  with  such  astonishing-  grandeur. 
I  have  knoAvn  few,  if  any,  other  churches  produce 
so  instantaneous  an  effect  of  a  beauty  that  was  one 
with  austerity.  This  great  Norman  is  more  Puri- 
tan than  French ;  it  is  Norman  Gothic  with  a  Pu- 
ritan severity. 

The  sound  of  a  deep  sonorous  music  took  us 
quickly  within.  It  was  as  mysterious  a  music 
as  ever  haunted  a  church  aisle.  The  vast  and 
snowy  interior  was  as  deserted  as  a  Presbyterian 
church  on  a  week-day.  Yet  the  sound  of  the  rich, 
strong  voices  filled  all  the  place.  There  was  no 
sound  of  tingling-  accompaniment :  there  was  no 
organ  pipe,  even,  to  add  its  sensuous  note  of  color. 
There  was  only  the  sound  of  the  voices,  as  they 
swelled,  and  broke,  and  began  afresh. 

The  singing-  went  on. 

It  was  a  slow  "plain  chant."  Into  the  g-reat 
arches  the  sonorous  chanting-  beat  upon  the  ear 
with  a  rhythmic  perfection  that,  even  without  the 
lovely  flavor  of  its  sweetness,  would  have  made  a 
beauty  of  its  own.  In  this  still  and  holy  j^lace, 
with  the  comjDany  of  the  stately  Norman  arches 
soaring-  aloft — beneath  the  sombre  g-lory  of  the 
g-iant  aisles — the  austere  simplicity  of  this  chant 
made  the  heart  beat,  one  knew  not  why,  and  the 
eyes  moisten,  one  also  knew  not  why. 

We  had  followed  the  voices.  They  came,  we 
found,  from  within  the  choir.  A  pattering  of  steps 
proclaimed  we  were  to  go  no  farther. 

"  Not  there,  my  ladies — step  this  way,  one  only 
enters  the  choir  by  going  into  the  hospital." 


THREE  NORMANDY  INNS.  261 

The  voice  was  low  and  sweet ;  the  smile,  a 
spark  of  divinity  set  in  a  woman's  face ;  and  the 
whole  was  clothed  in  a  nun's  garb. 

We  followed  the  fluttering  robes ;  we  jDassed 
out  once  more  into  the  sunlit  parvis.  We  spoke 
to  the  smile  and  it  answered :  yes,  the  choir  was 
reserved  for  the  Sisters — they  must  be  able  to  ap- 
proach it  from  the  convent  and  the  hospital ;  it 
had  always,  since  the  time  of  Mathilde,  been  re- 
served for  the  nuns ;  would  we  pass  this  way  ? 
The  way  took  us  into  an  open  vaulted  iDassage, 
past  a  grating-  where  sat  a  white-capped  Sister, 
past  a  group  of  girls  and  boys  carrying  wreaths 
and  garlands — they  were  making  ready  for  the 
Fete-Dieu,  our  nun  explained — past,  at  the  last, 
a  series  of  corridors  through  which,  faintly  at  first, 
and  then  sweeter  and  fuller,  there  struck  once 
more  upon  our  ears  the  sounds  of  the  deej)  and 
resonant  chanting. 

The  black  gown  stopped  all  at  once.  The  nun 
was  standing  in  front  of  a  green  curtain.  She 
lifted  it.  This  was  what  we  saw.  The  semicircle 
of  a  wide  apse.  Behind,  rows  upon  rows  of  round 
arches.  Below  the  arches,  in  the  choir-stalls,  a 
long  half-circle  of  stately  figures.  The  figures 
were  draped  from  head  to  foot.  T\Tien  they  bent 
their  heads  not  an  inch  of  flesh  was  visible,  except 
a  few  hands  here  and  there  that  had  escaped  the 
long,  wide  sleeves.  All  these  figures  were  motion- 
less ;  they  were  as  immobile  as  statues ;  occasion- 
ally, at  the  end  of  a  "  Gloria,"  all  turned  to  face 
the  high  altar.  At  the  end  of  the  "  Amen "  a 
cloud  of  black  veils  swept  the  ground.     Then  for 


262  THREE  NORMANDY  INNS. 

several  measures  of  the  chant  the  fisfures  were 
as^ain  as  marble.  In  each  of  the  low,  round  arches,  a 
stately  woman,  tall  and  nobly  planned,  di'aped  like 
a  g-oddess  turned  saint,  stood  and  chanted  to  her 
Lord.  Had  the  Norman  builders  carved  these 
women,  ages  ago,  standing  about  Mathilde's  tomb, 
those  ancient  sculptures  could  not  have  embodied, 
in  more  ideal  image,  the  type  of  womanly  renun- 
ciation and  of  a  saint's  fervor  of  exaltation. 

We  left  them,  with  the  rich  chant  still  full  \\\)on 
their  lips,  with  heads  bent  Ioav,  calm  as  g-raven 
images.  It  was  only  the  bloom  on  a  cheek,  here 
and  there,  that  made  one  certain  of  the  youth  en- 
tombed within  these  nuns'  garb. 

"  Happy,  incsdames  ?  Oh,  mais  tres  Jieureuses, 
tonfes — there  are  no  women  so  happy  as  we.  See 
how  they  come  to  us,  from  all  the  country  around. 
En  voila  une — did  you  remark  the  pretty  one,  with 
the  book,  seated,  all  in  white  ?  She  is  to  be  ?.  full 
Sister  in  a  month.  She  comes  from  a  noble  fam- 
ily in  the  south.  She  was  here  one  day,  she  saw 
the  life  of  the  Sisters,  of  us  all  working  here, 
among  the  poor  soldiers — elle  a  vu  r,a,  et  jmur  tout 
de  bon,  s'esf  don  nee  a  Dieu  !  " 

The  smile  of  our  nun  was  rapturous.  She  was 
proving  its  source.  Once  more  we  saw  the  young 
countess  who  had  given  herself  to  her  God.  An 
hour  later,  when  we  had  reached  the  hospital 
wards,  her  novice's  robes  were  trailing  the  ground. 
She  was  on  her  knees  in  the  very  middle  of  the 
great  bare  room.  She  was  repeating  the  office  of 
the  hour,  aloud,  with  clasped  hands  and  uplifted 
head.     On  her  lovelj-  young  face  there  was  the 


THREE  NORMANDY  INNS.  263 

glow  of  a  divine  ecstasy.  All  the  white  faces  from 
the  long-  rows  of  the  white  beds  were  bending 
toward  her ;  to  one  even  in  all  fulness  of  strength 
and  health  that  girlish  figure,  praying-  beside  the 
g-reat  vase  of  the  snowy  daisies,  with  the  glow 
that  irradiated  the  sweet,  pure  face,  might  easily 
enough  have  seemed  an  ang-el's. 

As  companions  for  our  tour  of  the  g-rounds  we 
had  two  young  Englishmen.  Both  eyed  the  nuns 
in  the  distance  of  the  corridors  and  the  gardens 
with  the  sharpened  g-lances  all  men  level  at  the 
women  who  have  renounced  them.  It  is  a  mys- 
tery no  man  ever  satisfactorily  fathoms. 

"  Queer  notion,  this,  a  lot  of  women  shutting- 
themselves  up,"  remarked  the  young-er  of  the  two. 
"  In  England,  now,  they'd  all  go  in  for  being 
old  maids,  drinking-  tea  and  coddling-  cats,  you 
know." 

"  I  wonder  which  are  the  happier,  your  coun- 
trywomen or  these  Sisters,  who,  in  renouncing- 
the  world  devote  their  lives  to  serving-  it.  See, 
over  yonder ! "  and  I  nodded  to  a  scene  beneath 
the  wide  avenue  of  the  limes.  Two  tall  Augus- 
tines  were  supporting-  a  crippled  old  man  ;  they 
were  showing-  him  some  fresh  garden-beds.  Be- 
yond was  a  gayer  group.  Some  of  the  lay  sisters 
were  tugging  at  a  huge  basket  of  clothes,  fresh 
from  the  laundry.  Running-  across  the  grass, 
with  flying  draperies,  two  nuns,  laughing-  as  they 
ran,  each  striving-  to  outfoot  the  other,  were  has- 
tening to  their  rescue. 

"  They  keep  their  bloom,  running-  about  like 
that ;  only  healthy  nuns  I  ever  saw." 


264  THREE  NORMANDY  INNS. 

"  That's  because  they  have  something-  better 
than  cats  to  coddle." 

"  Ah,  ha !  that's  not  bad.  It's  a  slow  suicide, 
all  the  same.  But  here  we  are,  at  the  top ;  it's  a 
fine  outlook,  is  it  not  ?  " 

The  young  man  panted  as  he  reached  the  top 
of  the  Maze,  one  of  the  chief  glories  of  the  old 
Abbaye  grounds.  He  had  a  fair  and  sensitive 
face :  a  weak  product  on  the  whole,  he  seemed, 
compared  with  the  noblj^-built,  vigorous-bodied 
nuns  crowding  the  choir-stalls  yonder.  Instead, 
of  that  long,  slow  suicide,  surely  these  women 
should  be  doing  their  greater  work  of  reproducing 
a  race.  Even  an  open-air  cell  seems  to  me  out  of 
place  in  our  century.  It  will  be  entirely  out  of 
fashion  in  time,  doubtless,  as  the  mediaeval  cell 
has  gone  along  with  the  old  castle  life,  whose 
princely  mode  of  doing  things  made  a  nunnery 
the  only  respectable  hiding-x)lace  for  the  undow- 
ered daughters. 

As  we  crept  down  into  Caen,  it  was  to  find  it 
thick  with  the  dust  of  twilight.  The  streets  were 
dense  with  other  things  besides  the  thickened 
light.  The  Caen  world  was  crowding  homeward; 
all  the  boulevards  and  side-streets  were  alive  with 
a  moving  throng  of  dusty,  noisy,  wearj'^  holiday- 
makers.  The  town  was  abroad  in  the  streets  to 
hear  the  news  of  the  horses,  and  to  learn  the  his- 
tory of  the  betting. 

Although  we  had  gone  to  church  instead  of 
doing  the  races,  many  of  those  who  had  peopled 
the  gaj^  race-track  came  back  to  us.  The  table 
d'hote,  at  our  inn  that  night,  was  as  noisy  as  a 


THREE  NORMANDY  INNS.  265 

Parisian  cafe.  It  was  scarcely  as  discreet,  I 
should  say.  On  our  way  to  our  attic  that  night, 
the  little  corridors  made  us  a  really  amazing 
number  of  confidences. 

It  was  strange,  but  all  the  shoes  appeared  to 
have  come  in  pairs  of  twos.  Never  was  there 
such  a  collection  of  boots  in  couples.  Strange  it 
was,  also,  to  see  how  many  little  secrets  these  rows 
of  candid  shoe-leather  disclosed.  Here  a  pert, 
coquettish  pair  of  ties  were  having  as  little  in 
common  as  jDossible  with  the  stout,  somewhat 
clumsy  walking-boots  nest  them.  In  the  two  just 
beyond,  at  the  next  door,  how  the  delicate,  slender 
buttoned  kids  leaned  over,  floppingly,  to  rest  on 
the  coarse,  yet  strong,  hobnailed  clumx)ers  ! 

Shabbier  and  shabbier  grew  the  shoes,  as  we 
climbed  upward.  With  each  pair  of  stairs  we 
seemed  to  have  left  a  rung  in  the  ladder  of  fortune 
behind.  But  even  the  very  poorest  in  pocket  had 
brought  his  little  extravagance  with  him  to  the 
races. 

The  only  genuine  family  party  had  taken  re- 
fuge, like  ourselves,  in  the  attic. 

At  the  very  next  door  to  our  own.  Monsieur, 
Madame,  et  Bebe  proclaimed,  by  the  casting  of 
their  dusty  shoes,  that  they  also,  like  the  rest  of 
the  world,  had  come  to  Caen  to  see  the  horses  run. 


CHAPTEK  XXIV. 

A   DAY   AT   BAYEUX   AND   ST.    LO, 

Caen  seated  in  its  plain, 
wearing-  its  crown  of  stee- 
t  pies  —  this  was  our  last 
glimpse  of  the  beautiful 
city.  Our  way  to  Bayeux 
was  strewn  thick  with  these 
Normandy  jewels ;  wit  h 
towns  smaller  than  Caen ; 
with  Gothic  belfries ;  with 
ruined  priories,  and  Avitli 
castles,  stately  even  when 
tottering  in  decay.  When  the  last  castle  was  lost 
in  a  thicket,  we  discovered  that  our  iron  horse  was 
stopping  in  the  very  middle  of  a  field.  If  the 
guard  had  snouted  out  the  name  of  any  Ameri- 
can city,  built  overnight,  on  a  Western  prairie,  we 
should  have  felt  entirely  at  home  in  this  meadow ; 
we  should  have  known  any  clearing,  with  grass 
and  daisies,  was  a  very  finished  evidence  of  civili- 
zation at  high  pressure. 

But  a  lane  as  the  beginning  of  a  cathedral 
town  ! 

Evidently  Bayeux  has  had  a  Buskinian  dread 
of  steam-whistles,  for  this  ancient  seat  of  bish- 
ops has  succeeded    in    retaining   the    charms  of 


THREE  NORMANDY  INNS.  267 

its  old  rustic  approaches,  whatever  else  it  may- 
have  sacrificed  on  the  altar  of  modernness. 

An  harang-ue,  at  the  door  of  the  quaint  old 
Normandy  omnibus,  by  the  driver  of  the  same, 
was  proof  that  the  lesson  of  good  orator}',  ad- 
ministered by  generations  of  bishops,  had  not 
been  lost  on  the  Bayeux  inhabitants.  Two  re- 
bellious English  tourists  furnished  the  text  for 
the  driver's  sermon  ;  they  were  showing,  with  all 
the  naive  j)ride  of  pedestrians,  their  intention  of 
footin,^  the  distance  between  the  station  and  the 
cathedi-al.  This  was  an  independence  of  spirit  no 
Norman  could  endure  to  see.  TVTiat  ?  these  gen- 
tlemen proposed  to  walk,  in  the  sun,  throug-h 
clouds  of  dust,  when  here  was  a  carriage,  with 
ladies  for  companions,  at  their  command?  The 
coach  had  come  dowTi  the  hill  on  purpose  to  con- 
duct Messieurs  les  voyageurs ;  how  did  these  gen- 
tlemen suppose  a  ^?ere  de  famille  was  to  make  his 
living  if  the  fashion  of  walking  came  in  ?  And 
the  rusty  red  vest  was  thumbed  by  the  g-narled 
hand  of  the  father,  who  was  also  an  orator ;  and 
a  high-peaked  hat  swept  the  ground  before  the 
hard-hearted  g-entlemen.  All  the  tragedy  of  the 
situation  had  come  about  from  the  fact  that  the 
tourists,  also,  had  gotten  themselves  up  in  cos- 
tume. When  two  fine  youths  have  risen  early  in 
the  day  to  put  on  checked  stockings,  leggings, 
russet  walking-shoes,  and  a  j^laited  coat  with  a 
belt,  such  attire  is  one  to  be  lived  up  to.  Once 
in  knickerbockers  and  a  man's  g-etting"  into  an 
omnibus  is  really  too  ignominious !  With  such 
a  road  before  two  sets  of  such  well-shai^ed  calves— 


268  THREE  NORMANDY  INNS. 

a  road  all  shaped  and  graded — this,  indeed,  would 
be  Hying"  in  the  face  of  a  veritable  providence  of 
bishoiD-builders  intent  on  maintaining"  pastoral 
effects. 

The  knickerbockers  relentlessly  strode  onward ; 
the  driver  had  addressed  himself  to  hearts  of 
stone.  But  he  had  not  yet  exhausted  his  quiver 
of  appeal.  Englishmen  walk,  well!  there's  no 
accounting  for  the  taste  of  Britons  who  are  also 
still  half  savages ;  but  even  a  barbarian  must  eat. 
Half-way  up  the  hill,  the  rattle  of  the  loose- 
jointed  vehicle  came  to  a  dead  stop.  "With  great 
gravity  the  guard  descended  from  his  seat ;  this 
latter  he  lifted  to  take  from  the  entrails  of  the  old 
vehicle  a  handful  of  hand-bills.  He,  the  horse, 
the  omnibus,  and  we,  all  waited  for,  what  do  you 
suppose?  To  besprinkle  the  walking  English- 
men as  they  came  within  rang-e  with  a  shower  of 
circulars  announcing  that  at  "  midi,  cJiez  Nigaud, 
il  y  aura  nn  dejeuner  chaud." 

The  driver  turned  to  look  in  at  the  window — 
and  to  nod  as  he  turned — he  felt  so  certain  of 
our  sympathy ;  had  he  not  made  sure  of  them  at 
last? 

A  group  of  g"ossamer  caps  beneath  a  row  of  sad, 
gray -faced  houses  was  our  Bayeux  welcome.  The 
faces  beneath  the  caps  watched  our  approach  with 
the  same  sobriety  as  did  the  old  houses — they  had 
the  antique  Norman  seriousness  of  asjiect.  The 
noise  we  made  with  the  clatter  and  rattle  of  our 
broken-down  vehicle  seemed  an  impertinence,  in 
the  face  of  such  severe  countenances.  AVe  might 
have  been  entering  a  deserted   city,   except  for 


THREE  NORMANDY  INNS.  269 

the  presence  of  tliese  motionless  Normandy  fig- 
ures. The  cathedral  met  us  at  the  threshold  of 
the  city :  magnificent,  majestic,  a  huge  gray 
mountain  of  stone,  but  severe  in  outline,  as  if  the 
Norman  builders  had  carved  on  the  vast  surface 
of  its  fa9ade  an  imprint  of  their  own  grave 
earnestness. 

We  were  somewhat  early  for  the  hot  breakfast 
at  Nigaud's.  There  was,  however,  the  appetizing 
smell  of  soup,  with  a  flourishing  x^ervasiveness  of 
onion  in  the  pot,  to  sustain  the  vigor  of  an  appe- 
tite whetted  by  a  start  at  dawn.  The  knicker- 
bockers came  in  with  the  omelette.  But  one  is 
not  a  Briton  on  his  travels  for  nothing  ;  one  does 
not  leave  one's  own  island  to  be  the  dupe  of 
French  inn-keepers.  The  smell  of  the  soup  had 
not  departed  with  our  empty  jplates,  and  the 
voice  of  the  walkers  was  not  of  the  softest  when 
they  demanded  their  rights  to  be  as  odorous  as. 
we.  There  is  always  a  curiously  agreeable  sensa- 
tion, to  an  American,  in  seeing  an  Englishman 
angry ;  to  get  angry  in  public  is  one  thing  we 
do  badly ;  and  in  his  cup  of  wrath  our  British 
brother  is  sublime — he  is  so  superbly  unconscious 
— and  so  contemptuous — of  the  fact  that  the 
world  sometimes  finds  anger  ridiculous. 

At  the  other  end  of  the  long  and  narrow  table 
two  other  travellers  were  seated,  a  man  and  a. 
woman.  But  food,  to  them,  it  was  made  mani- 
festly evident,  was  a  matter  of  the  most  supreme 
indifference.  They  were  at  that  radiant  moment 
of  life  when  eating  is  altogether  too  gross  a  form 
of  indulgence.     For  these  two  were  at  the  most 


270  THREE  NORMANDY  INNS. 

iuteresting-  period  of  French  courtship — just  after 
the  wedding'  ceremony,  when,  with  the  priest's 
blessing-,  had  come  the  consent  of  their  worki  and 
of  tradition  to  their  making-  the  other's  acqiTaint- 
ance.  This  provincial  bride  and  her  husband 
of  a  day  were  beginning,  as  all  rustic  courting 
beg-ius,  by  a  furtive  holding-  of  hands ;  this 
particular  couple,  in  view  of  our  proximity  and 
their  own  mutual  embarrassment,  had  recourse  to 
the  subterfug-e  of  desperate  lung-es  at  the  other's 
fing-ers,  beneath  the  table-cloth.  The  screen,  as  a 
screen,  did  not  work.  It  deceived  no  one — as  the 
bride's  pale-gray  dress  and  her  Howery  bonnet 
also  deceived  no  one — save  herself.  This  latter, 
in  certain  ranks  of  life,  is  the  bride's  travelling- 
costume,  the  world  over.  And  the  world  over,  it 
is  worn  by  the  recently  wedded  with  the  profound 
conviction  that  in  donning-  it  they  have  discovered 
the  most  complete  of  all  disg-uises. 

This  bride  and  g-room  were  obviously  in  the 
first  rapture  of  mutual  discovery.  The  honey  in 
their  moon  was  not  fresher  than  their  views  of  the 
other's  tastes  and  predilections. 

"  Ah — ah — you  like  to  travel  quickly — to  see 
everything-,  to  take  it  all  in  in  a  g-ulp — so  do  I, 
and  then  to  digest  at  one"s  leisure." 

The  bride  was  entirely  of  this  mind.  Only,  she 
murmured,  there  were  other  things  one  must  not 
do  too  quickly — one  must  go  slow  in  matters  of 
the  heart — to  make  quite  sure  of  all  the  stages. 

But  her  husband  was  at  her  throat,  that  is,  his 
eyes  and  lips  were,  as  he  answered,  so  that  all  the 
table  might  partake  of  his  emotion — "  No,  no,  the 


THREE  NORMANDY  INNS.  271 

quicker  tlie  heart  feels  the  quicker  love  comes. 
Tiens,  voyons,  man  amie,  toi-meme,  fu  m'as  confie  " — 
and  the  rest  was  lost  in  the  bride's  ear. 

Apparently  we  were  to  have  them,  these  brides, 
for  the  rest  of  our  journey,  in  all  stages  and  of  all 
ages  !  Thus  far  none  others  had  appeared  as  de- 
termined as  were  these  two  honey-mooners,  that 
all  the  world  should  share  their  bliss.  They  were 
cracking  filberts  with  their  disengaged  fingers, 
the  other  two  being  closely  interlocked,  in  quite 
scandalous  openness,  when  we  left  them. 

That  was  the  only  form  of  expitement  that 
greeted  us  in  the  quiet  Bayeux  streets.  The  very 
street  urchins  invited  repose ;  the  few  we  saw 
were  seated  sedately  on  the  threshold  of  their  own 
door -steps,  frequent  sallies  abroad  into  this 
quiet  city  having  doubtless  convinced  them  of 
the  futility  of  all  sorties.  The  old  houses  wore 
their  carved  fagades  as  old  ladies  wear  rich  lace— 
they  had  reached  the  age  when  the  vanity  of  per- 
sonal adornment  had  ceased  to  inflate.  The  great 
cathedral,  towering  above  the  tranquil  town,  wore 
a  more  conscious  air ;  its  significance  was  too 
great  a  contrast  to  the  quiet  city  asleep  at  its 
feet.  In  these  long,  slow  centuries  the  towers 
had  grown  to  have  the  air  of  protectors. 

The  famous  tapestries  we  went  to  see  later, 
might  easily  enough  have  been  worked  yesterday, 
in  any  one  of  the  old  mediaeval  houses ;  Mathilde 
and  her  hand-maidens  would  find  no  more — not  so 
much — to  distract  and  disturb  them  now  in  this 
still  and  tranquil  town,  with  its  sad  gray  streets 
and  its  moss-grown  door-steps,  as  they  must  in 


272  THREE  N0RMAND7  INNS. 

those  earlier  bustling"  centuries  of  the  Conqueror. 
Even  then,  when  Normandy  was  only  beginning- 
its  career  of  importance  among  the  g"reat  French 
f)rovinces,  Bayeux  was  already  old.  She  was 
far  more  Norse  then  than  Norman;  she  was 
Scandinavian  to  the  core ;  even  her  nobles  spoke 
in  harsh  Norse  syllables;  they  were  as  little 
French  as  it  was  possible  to  be,  and  yet  g-overn  a 
people. 

Mathilde,  when  she  toiled  over  her  frame,  like 
all  great  wi-iters,  was  doubtless  quite  unconscious 
she  was  producing-  a  masterpiece.  She  was,  how- 
ever, in  point  of  fact,  the  very  first  among-  the 
g-reat  French  realists.  No  other  French  writer  has 
written  as  graphically  as  she  did  with  her  needle, 
of  the  life  and  customs  of  their  day.  That  long 
scroll  of  tapestry,  for  truth  and  a  naive  perfection 
of  sincerity — where  will  you  find  it  equalled  or 
even  approached  ?  It  is  a  rude  Homeric  epic ; 
and  I  am  not  quite  certain  that  it  ought  not  to 
rank  higher  than  even  some  of  the  more  famous 
epics  of  the  world — since  Mathilde  had  to  create 
the  mould  of  art  into  which  she  poured  her  story. 
For  who  had  thought  before  her  of  making  wom- 
en's stitches  write  or  paint  a  great  historical 
event,  crowded  with  homely  details  which  now  are 
dubbed  archaeological  veracities  ? 

Bayeux  and  its  tapestry ;  its  grave  company  of 
antique  houses;  its  glorious  cathedral  dominat- 
ing the  whole — what  a  loveh^  old  background 
against  which  poses  the  eternal  modernness  of  the 
young  noon  sun  !  The  history  of  Bayeux  is  com- 
monly given  in  a  paragraph.     Our  morning's  walk 


THREE  NORMANDY  INNS.  273 

had  proved  to  us  it  was  the  kind  of  town  that  does 
more  to  re-ci'eate  the  historic  past  than  all  the 
pages  of  a  Guizot  or  a  Challamel. 

The  bells  that  were  ringing  out  the  hour  of  high- 
noon  from  the  cathedral  towers  at  Bayeux  were 
making  the  heights  of  St.  L6,  two  hours  later, 
as  noisy  as  a  village  fair.  The  bells,  for  rivals,  had 
the  clatter  of  women's  tongues.  I  think  I  never, 
before  or  since,  have  beheld  so  lively  a  company 
of  washerwomen  as  were  beating  their  clothes  in 
Vire  Eiver.  The  river  bends  prettily  just  below 
the  St.  L6  heights,  as  if  it  had  gone  out  of  its  way 
to  courtesy  to  a  hill.  But  even  the  waters,  in 
their  haste  to  be  polite,  could  not  course  beneath 
the  great  bridge  as  swiftly  as  ran  those  women's 
tongues.  There  were  a  good  hundi-ed  of  them  at 
work  beneath  the  washing  -  sheds.  Now,  these 
sheds,  anywhere  in  France,  are  really  the  open- 
air  club  -  room  of  the  French  peasant  woman  ; 
the  whole  dish  of  the  village  gossip  is  hung  out 
to  dry,  having  previously  been  well  soused  and 
aired,  along  with  the  blouses  and  the  coarse  che- 
mises. The  town  of  St.  L6  had  evidently  fur- 
nished these  club  members  of  the  washing-stones 
with  some  fat  dish  of  gossip — the  heads  were  as 
close  as  currants  on  a  stem,  as  they  bent  in 
groups  over  the  bright  waters.  They  had  told  it 
all  to  the  stream ;  and  the  stream  rolled  the  vol- 
ume of  the  talk  along  as  it  carried  along  also  the 
gay,  sparkling  reflections  of  the  life  and  the  toil 
that  bent  over  it — of  the  myriad  reflections  of 
those  moving,  bare-armed  figures,  of  the  brilliant 
kerchiefs,  of  the  wet  blue  and  gray  jerseys,  and  of 


274  THREE  NORMANDY  INNS. 

the  long"  prismatic  line  of  the  damp,  motley-hued 
clothes  that  were  fluttering-  in  the  wind. 

The  bells'  clang-or  was  an  assurance  that  some- 
thing- was  happening-  on  top  of  the  hill.  Just 
what  happened  was  as  altog-ether  pleasing-  a  spec- 
tacle, after  a  long-  and  arduous  climb  up  a  hillside, 
as  it  has  often  been  my  g-ood  fortune  to  encounter. 

The  portals  of  the  church  of  Notre-Dame  were 
wide  open.  Within,  as  we  looked  over  the  shoul- 
ders of  the  townspeople  who,  like  us,  had  come  to 
see  what  the  bells  meant  by  their  ring-ing-,  within 
the  church  there  was  a  rich  and  sombre  dusk ;  out 
of  this  dusk,  indistinctly  at  first,  lit  by  the  tremu- 
lous flicker  of  a  myriad  of  candles,  came  a  line 
of  white -veiled  heads;  then  another  of  young- 
boys,  with  faces  as  jDale  as  the  noseg-ays  adorning: 
their  brand-new  black  coats;  next  the  scarlet- 
robed  choristers,  singing',  and  behind  them  still 
others  swinging  incense  that  thickened  the  dusk. 
Suddenly,  like  a  vision,  the  white  veils  passed  out 
into  the  sunlig-ht,  and  we  saw  that  the  faces  be- 
neath the  veils  were  young-  and  comely.  The 
faces  were  still  alternately  lig-hted  by  the  flare  of 
the  burning  tapers  and  the  g-lare  of  the  noon  sun. 
The  long  procession  ended  at  last  in  a  straggling- 
group  of  old  peasants  with  fine  tremulous  mouths, 
a- tremble  with  pride  and  with  feeling ;  for  here 
they  were  walking  in  full  sight  of  their  town,  in 
their  holiday  coats,  with  their  knees  treacherously 
unsteady  from  the  thrill  of  the  organ's  thunder 
and  the  sweetness  of  the  choir-boys'  singing. 

TMiether  it  was  a  pardon,  or  a  fete,  or  a  first 
communion,  we  never  knew.     But  the  town  of  St. 


THREE  NORMANDY  INNS.  275 

L6  is  ever  gloriouslj^  liglited,  for  us,  with  a  nimbus 
of  young  heads,  such  as  encircled  the  earlier  ma- 
donnas. 

After  such  a  goodlj^  spectacle,  the  rest  of  the 
town  was  a  tame  morsel.  We  took  a  parting  sniff 
of  the  incense  still  left  in  the  eastern  end  of  the 
church's  nave  ;  there  was  a  bit  of  good  glass  in  a 
Avindow  to  reward  us.  Outside  the  church,  on  the 
west  from  the  Petite  Place,  was  a  wide  outlook  over 
the  lovely  vale  of  the  Tire,  with  St.  L6  itself  twist- 
ing and  turning  in  graceful  postures  down  the  hill- 
side. 

On  the  same  prospect  two  kings  have  looked, 
and  before  the  kings  a  saint.  St.  L6  or  St.  Lau- 
dus  himself,  who  gave  his  name  to  the  town,  must, 
in  the  sixth  century,  have  gazed  on  virgin  forests 
stretching  away  from  the  hill  far  as  the  ej^  e  could 
reach.  Charlemagne,  three  hundred  years  later, 
in  his  turn,  found  the  site  a  goodly  one,  one  to 
tempt  men  to  worship  the  Creator  of  such  beauty, 
for  here  he  founded  the  great  Abbey  of  St.  Croix, 
long  since  gone  with  the  monks  who  peopled  it. 
Louis  XI.,  that  mystic  wearing  the  warrior's 
helmet,  set  his  seal  of  ajoproval  on  the  hill,  by 
sending  the  famous  glass  yonder  in  the  cathedral, 
when  the  hill  and  the  St.  L6  people  beat  the  Bre- 
tons who  had  come  to  capture  both. 

Like  saint,  and  kings,  and  monks,  and  warriors, 
we  in  our  turn  crej)t  down  the  hill.  For  we  also 
were  done  with  the  town. 


CHAPTEE  XXV. 

A   DINKEE    AT   COUTANCES, 

,  The  way  from  St.  L6  to  Cou- 
tances  is  a  pleasant  way. 
There  is  no  map  of  the 
country  that  will  give  you 
even  a  hint  of  its  true 
character,  any  more  than 
from  a  photograph  you 
can  hope  to  gain  an  in- 
sight into  the  moral  qual- 
ities of  a  i^retty  woman. 
Here,  at  last,  was  the  ideal  Normandy  landscape. 
It  was  a  country  with  a  savage  look — a  savage  that 
had  been  trained  to  follow  the  plough.  Even  in 
its  color  it  had  retained  the  true  barbarians'  in- 
stinct for  a  good  primary.  Here  were  no  melting- 
yellow  mustard-fields,  nor  flame-lit  poppied  mead- 
ows, nor  l)lue -bells  lifting  their  baby-blue  eyes 
out  of  the  grain.  All  the  land  was  green.  Fields, 
meadows,  forests,  plains — all  were  green,  green, 
green.  The  features  of  the  landscape  had  changed 
Avith  this  change  in  coloring.  The  slim,  fragile 
grace  of  slim  trees  and  fragile  cliffs  had  been  re- 
placed by  trees  of  heroic  proportions,  and  by  out- 
lines nobly  roimded  and  full — like  the  breasts  of  a 
mother.     The  whole  country  had  an  astonishing 


THREE  NORMANDY  INNS.  277 

look  of  vigor — of  the  vig-or  whicli  comes  with  rude 
strength  ;  and  it  had  that  charm  which  goes  with 
all  untamed  beauty — the  power  to  sting  one  into  a 
sense  of  agitated  enjoyment. 

Even  the  farm-houses  had  been  suddenly  trans- 
formed into  fortresses.  •  Each  one  of  the  groups  of 
the  farm  enclosures  had  its  outer  walls,  its  minia- 
ture turrets,  and  here  and  there  its  rounded  bas- 
tions. Each  farm,  apparently,  in  the  olden  days 
had  been  a  citadel  unto  itself.  The  Breton  had 
been  a  very  troublesome  neighbor  for  many  a 
long  century ;  every  ploughman,  until  a  few  hun- 
dred years  ago,  was  quite  likely  to  turn  soldier  at 
a  second's  notice — every  true  Norman  must  look 
to  his  own  sword  to  defend  his  hearth-stone.  Such 
is  the  story  those  stone  turrets  that  cap  the  farm 
walls  tell  you— each  one  of  these  turrets  was  an 
open  lid  through  which  the  farmer  could  keep  his 
eye  on  Brittany. 

Meanwhile,  along  the  roads  as  we  rushed  swiftly 
by,  a  quieter  life  was  passing.  The  farm  wagons 
were  jogging  peacefulh'  along*  on  a  high-road  as 
smooth  as  a  fine  lady's  palm — and  as  white.  The 
horses  were  harnessed  one  before  the  other,  in  in- 
terminable length  of  line.  Sometimes  six,  some- 
times eight,  even  so  many  as  ten,  marched  with  great 
gravity,  and  with  that  majestic  dignity  only  pos- 
sible to  full-blooded  Percherons,  one  after  the 
other.  They  each  wore  a  saddle-cloth  of  blue  sheep- 
skin. On  their  mottled  haunches  this  bit  of  color 
made  their  polished  coats  to  gleam  like  unto  a  liz- 
ards' skin. 

Meanwhile,  also,  we  were  nearing  Coutances. 


278  THREE  NORMANDY  INNS. 

The  farm-houses  were  fortresses  no  lono-er :  the 
thatched  roofs  were  one  once  more  with  the  green 
of  the  high-roads ;  for  even  in  the  old  days  there 
was  a  great  walled  city  set  up  on  a  hill,  to  which 
refuge  all  the  people  about  for  miles  could  turn  for 
protection. 

A  city  that  is  set  on  a  hill  !  That  for  me 
is  commonly  recommendation  enough.  Such  a 
city,  so  set,  promises  at  the  Yery  least  the  dual 
distinction  of  looking  up  as  well  as  looking  down ; 
it  is  the  nearer  heaven,  and  just  so  much  the. 
farther  removed  from  earth. 

Coutances,  for  a  city  with  its  head  in  the  air, 
was  surprisingly  friendly.  It  went  out  of  its  way 
to  make  us  at  home.  At  the  very  station,  down 
below  in  the  lilain,  it  had  sent  the  most  loc[uaci- 
ous  of  coach-drivers  to  put  us  in  immediate  touch 
with  its  present  interests.  All  the  city,  as  the 
coarse  blue  blouse,  flourishing  its  whip,  took 
pains  to  explain,  was  abroad  in  the  fields:  the 
forests,  tiens,  down  yonder  through  the  trees,  we 
could  see  for  ourselves  how  the  young  people  were 
making  the  woods  as  crowded  as  a  ball-room. 
The  city,  as  a  city,  was  stripping  the  land  and  the 
trees  bare — it  would  be  as  bald  as  a  new-born 
babe  by  the  morrow.  But  then,  of  a  certainty,  we 
also  had  come  for  the  fete — or,  and  here  a  puzzled 
look  of  doubt  beclouded  the  provincial's  eyes — 
might  we,  perchance,  instead,  have  come  for  the 
trial?  3Iais  non,  pas  ca,  these  ladies  had  never 
come  for  that,  since  they  did  not  even  know  the 
court  was  sitting,  now,  this  very  instant,  at  Cou- 
tances.   And — sapristi  !  but  there  was  a  trial  go- 


THREE  NORMANDY  INNS.  279 

iug-  on — one  to  make  the  blood  curdle :  he  himself 
h'^d  not  slept,  the  rustic  coachman  added,  as  he 
shivered  beneath  his  blouse,  all  the  night  before — 
the  blood  had  run  so  cold  in  his  veins. 

The  horse  and  the  road  were  all  the  while  g'oing' 
up  the  hill.  The  road  was  easily  one  that  mig-ht 
have  been  the  path  of  warriors ;  the  walls,  still 
loft}'  on  the  side  nearest  the  town,  bristled  with  a 
turret  or  a  bastion  to  remind  us  Coutances  had 
not  been  set  on  a  hill  for  mere  purposes  of  beauty. 
The  ramparts  of  the  old  fortifications  had  been 
turned  into  a  broad  promenade.  Even  as  we 
jolted  past,  beneath  the  great  breadth  of  the 
trees'  verdure  we  could  see  how  gloriously  the 
prospect  widened — the  country  below  reaching 
out  to  the  horizon  like  the  waters  of  a  sea  that 
end  only  in  indefiniteness. 

The  city  itself  seemed  to  grow  out  of  the  walls 
and  the  trees.  Here  and  there  a  few  scattered 
houses  grouped  themselves  as  if  meaning  to  start 
a  street ;  but  a  maze  of  foliage  made  a  straight 
line  impossible.  Finally  a  large  group  of  build- 
ings, with  severe  stone  faces,  took  a  more  serious 
plunge  away  from  the  vines  ;  they  had  shaken 
themselves  free  and  were  soon  soberly  ranging 
themselves  into  the  parallel  lines  of  narrow  city 
streets. 

It  was  a  pleasant  surprise  to  find  that,  for  once, 
a  Norman  blouse  had  told  the  truth  ;  for  here 
were  the  f)eople  of  Coutances  coming  uj)  from  the 
fields  to  prove  it.  In  all  these  narrow  streets  a 
great  multitude  of  people  were  passing  us  ;  some 
were  laden  with  vines,  others  with  young  forest 


280  THREE  NORMANDY  INNS. 

trees,  and  still  others  with  rude  g-arlands  of  flow- 
ers. The  iJeasaut  women's  faces,  as  the  bent  fig- 
ures staggered  beneath  a  young  fir-tree,  were  pur- 
ple, but  their  smiles  were  as  gay  as  the  wild 
flowers  with  which  the  stones  were  thickly  strewn. 
Their  words  also  were  as  rough : 

"  Diantre—mais  c'e  lourd  !  " 

"  E-hen,  e  toi,  tu  rC  hovgeons  point,  toi  !  " 
And  the  nearest  fir-tree  carrier  to  our  carriage- 
wheels  cracked  a  swift  blow  over  the  head  of  a 
vine-bearer,  who  being  but  an  infant  of  two,  could 
not  make  time  with  the  swift  foot  of  its  mother. 

The  smell  of  the  flowers  was  everywhere.  Fir- 
trees  perfumed  the  air.  Every  doorstep  was  a 
garden.  The  courtyards  were  alive  with  the 
squat  figures  of  capped  maidens,  wreathing  and 
twisting  greens  and  garlands.  And  in  the  streets 
there  was  such  a  noise  as  was  never  before  heard 
in  a  city  on  a  hill-top. 

For  Coutances  was  to  hold  its  great  fek,  on  the 
morrow. 

It  was  a  relief  to  turn  in  from  the  noise  and 
hubbub  to  the  bright  courtyard  of  our  inn.  The 
brightness  thereof,  and  of  the  entire  establish- 
ment, indeed,  appeared  to  find  its  central  source 
in  the  brilliant  eyes  of  our  hostess.  Never  was 
an  inn-keeper  gifted  with  a  vision  at  once  so  om- 
niscient and  so  effulgent.  Those  eyes  were  every- 
where ;  on  us,  on  our  bags,  our  bonnets,  our  boots ; 
they  divined  our  wants,  and  answered  beforehand 
our  unuttered  longings.  We  had  come  far?  the 
eyes  asked,  burning  a  hole  through  our  gossamer 
evasions ;   from  Paris,  i^erha^DS — a  glance  at  our 


THREE  NORMANDY  INNS.  281 

bonnets  proclaimed  the  eyes  knew  all ;  we  were 
here  for  the  fete,  to  see  the  bishop  on  the  mor- 
row ;  that  was  well ;  we  were  going  on  to  the 
Mont ;  and  the  eyes  scented  the  shortness  of  our 
stay  by  a  swift  glance  at  our  luggage. 

"  Numero  quatre,  au  troisieme  !  " 

There  was  no  aj^peal  possible.  The  eyes  had 
penetrated  the  disguise  of  our  courtesy ;  we  were 
but  travellers  of  a  night ;  the  top  story  was  built 
for  such  as  we. 

But  such  a  top  story,  and  such  a  chamber 
therein !  A  great,  wide,  low  room ;  beams  deej? 
and  black,  with  here  and  there  a  brass  bit  hang- 
ing ;  waxed  floors,  polished  to  mirrory  perfection ; 
a  great  bed  clad  in  snowy  draperies,  with  a  snow- 
white  duvet  of  gigantic  proportions.  The  walls 
were  gray  with  lovely  bunches  of  faded  rosebuds 
flung  abroad  on  the  soft  surface ;  and  to  give  a 
quaint  and  antique  note  to  the  whole,  over  the 
chimney  was  a  bit  of  worn  tapestry  with  formid- 
able dungeon,  a  Norman  keep  in  the  background, 
and  well  uj^  in  front,  a  stalwart  young  master  of 
the  hounds,  with  dogs  in  leash,  of  the  heavy  Nor- 
man type  of  bulging  muscle  and  high  cheek- 
bones. 

Altogether,  there  were  worse  fates  in  the  world 
than  to  be  travellers  of  a  night,  with  the  destiny 
of  such  a  room  as  part  of  the  fate. 

When  we  descended  the  steep,  narrow  spiral  of 
steps  to  the  dining-room,  it  was  to  find  the  eyes 
of  our  hostess  brighter  than  ever.  The  noise  in 
the  streets  had  subsided.  It  was  long  after  dusk, 
and  Coutances  was  evidently  a  good  provincial. 


282       THREE  NORMANDY  INNS. 

But  iu  the  guy  little  diniiig'-room  there  was  an  as- 
touishing'  bustle  and  excitement. 

The  fefe  and  the  court  had  brought  a  crowd  of 
diners  to  the  inn-table ;  when  we  were  all  seated 
we  made  quite  a  compan}^  at  the  long,  narrow 
board.  The  candles  and  lamjos  lit  up  any  number 
of  Vandyke-pointed  beards,  of  bald  heads,  of 
loosely-tied  cravats,  and  a  few  matronly  bosoms 
straining  at  the  buttons  of  silk  holiday  gowns. 
For  the  Fcfe-Dieu  had  brought  visitors  besides 
ourselves  from  all  the  country  round ;  and  then 
"  a  first  communion  is  like  a  marriage,  all  the  rela- 
tives must  come,  as  doubtless  we  knew,"  was  a 
bald-head's  friendly  beginning  of  his  soup  and 
his  talk,  as  we  took  our  seats  beside  him. 

With  the  ai^pearance  of  the  pofage  conversation, 
like  a  battle  between  foes  eager  for  contest,  had 
immediately  engaged  itself.  The  setting  of  the 
table  and  the  air  of  comjjanionship  pervading  the 
establishment  were  aiders  and  abettors  to  imme- 
diate intercourse.  Nothing  could  be  prettier  than 
the  Caen  bowls  with  their  bunches  of  purple 
l^hlox  and  spiked  blossoms.  Even  a  metropolitan 
table  might  have  taken  a  lesson  from  the  perfec- 
tion of  the  lighting  of  the  long  board.  In  order 
that  her  guests  should  feel  the  more  entirely  at 
home,  our  brilliant-eyed  liostess  came  in  with 
the  soup  ;  she  took  her  place  behind  it  at  the 
head  of  the  table. 

It  was  evident  the  merchants  from  Cherbourg 
who  had  come  as  witnesses  to  the  trial,  had  had 
many  a  conversational  bout  before  now  with  mad- 
ame's  ready  wit.     So  had  two  of  the  toAvn  lawyers. 


THREE  NORMANDY  INNS.  283 

Even  the  commercial  gentlemen,  for  once,  were 
experiencing  a  brief  moment  of  armed  suspense, 
before  they  flung  themselves  into  the  arena  of 
talk.  At  first,  or  it  would  never  have  been  in  the 
provinces,  this  talk  at  the  long  table,  everyone 
broke  into  speech  at  once.  There  was  a  flood  of 
words ;  one's  sense  of  hearing  was  stunned  by  the 
noise.  Gradually,  as  the  cider  and  the  thin  red 
wine  were  passed,  our  neighbors  gave  digestion  a 
chance ;  the  din  became  less  thick  with  words ; 
each  listened  when  the  other  talked.  But,  as  the 
volume  of  speech  lessened,  the  interest  thickened. 
It  finally  became  concentrated,  this  interest,  into 
true  French  fervor  when  the  question  of  the  trial 
was  touched  on. 

"  They  say  D'Alengon  is  very  clever.  He 
pleads  for  Filon,  the  culprit,  to-night,  does  he 
not  ?  " 

"  Yes,  poor  Filon — it  will  go  hard  with  him. 
His  crime  is  a  black  one." 

''I  should  think  it  was — implicating  le petit  !  " 

"  Dame !  the  judge  doesn't  seem  to  be  of  your 
mind." 

"  Ah — h !  "  cried  a  florid  Yaudyke-bearded  man, 
the  dynamite  bomb  of  the  table,  exj^lodiug  with 
a  roar  of  rage.  "All — li,  ere  nom  de  Dieu  ! — Mes- 
sieurs Jes  jrre  si  dents  are  all  like  that ;  they  are 
always  on  the  side  of  the  innocent " 

"  Till  they  jDrove  them  guilty." 

"  Guilty  !  guilty ! "  the  bomb  exploded  in  earn- 
est now.  "  How  many  times  in  the  annals  of 
crime  is  a  man  guilty — really  guilty  ?  They 
should  search   for  the  cause — and  punish   that. 


284  THREE  NORMANDY  INNS. 

That  is  true  justice.  The  instis^-ator,  the  insti- 
gator— he  is  the  true  culprit.  Inheritances — voild 
les  vrais  coiqyahles.  But  when  are  such  things  in- 
vestigated ?  It  is  ever  the  innocent  who  are  i)un- 
ishecl.     I  know  something  of  that — I  do." 

"  AlJons — aJIonsf"  cried  the  table,  laughing  at 
the  beard's  vehemence.  ""WTien  were  you  ever 
under  sentence  ? " 

"  When  I  was  doing  my  dut3%"'  the  beard  hurled 
back  with  both  arms  in  the  air;  "  when  I  was  doing 
my  three  years — I  and  my  comrade  ;  we  were  con- 
victed—punished— for  an  act  of  insubordination 
we  never  committed.  Without  a  trial,  without  a 
chance  of  defending  ourselves,  we  were  put  on 
two  crumbs  of  bread  and  a  glass  of  water  for  two 
months.  And  we  were  innocent — as  innocent  as 
babes,  I  tell  you." 

The  table  was  as  still  as  death.  The  beard  had 
proved  himself  worthy  of  this  compliment ;  his 
voice  was  the  voice  of  di-ama,  and  his  gestures  such 
as  every  Frenchman  delights  in  beholding  and 
executing.     Every  ear  was  his,  now. 

"  I  have  no  rancor.  I  am,  by  nature,  what  God 
made  me,  a  peaceable  man,  but " — here  the  voice 
made  a  wild  crescendo — "  if  I  ever  meet  my  colonel 
— gave  a  lid  !  I  told  him  so.  I  waited  two  years, 
two  long  years,  till  I  was  released  ;  then  I  walked 
up  to  him  "  (the  beard  rose  here,  putting  his  hand 
to  his  forehead),  "  I  saluted  "  (the  hand  made  the 
salute),  "  and  I  said  to  him,  '  Mon  colonel,  you 
convicted  me,  on  false  evidence,  of  a  crime  I  never 
committed.  You  j^unished  me.  It  is  two  years 
since  then.     But  I  have  never  forgotten.     Pray  to 


THREE  NORMANDY  INNS.  285 

God  we  may  never  meet  in  civil  life,  for  then  yours 
would  end ! " 

"  Allons,  aJlons  !  A  man  after  all  must  do  his 
duty.  A  colonel — he  can't  go  into  details !  "  re- 
monstrated the  hostess,  with  her  knife  in  the  air. 

"I  would  stick  him,  I  tell  you,  as  I  would  a  iDig 
— or  a  Prussian !    I  live  but  for  that ! " 

"  3Ionstre  !  "  cried  the  table  in  chorus,  with  a 
laugfh,  as  it  took  its  wine.  And  each  turned  to  his 
neighbor  to  prove  the  beard  in  the  wrong*. 

"  Of  what  crime  is  the  defendant  g"uilty — he  who 
is  to  be  tried  to-night  ?  "  Charm  asked  of  a  silent 
man,  with  sweet  serious  eyes  and  a  rough  gray 
beard,  seated  next  her.  Of  all  the  beards  at  the 
table,  this  one  alone  had  been  content  with  lis- 
tening. 

"  Of  fraud — mademoiselle — of  fraud  and  for. 
gery."  The  man  had  a  voice  as  sweet  as  a  church 
bell,  and  as  deep.  Every  word  he  said  rang  out 
slowly,  sonorously.  The  attention  of  the  table  was 
fixed  in  an  instant.  "  It  is  the  case  of  a  Monsieur 
Filon,  of  Cherbourg.  He  is  a  cider  merchant.  He 
has  cheated  the  state,  making  false  entries,  -etc. 
But  his  worst  crime  is  that  he  has  used  as  his  ac- 
complice un  toutjxfit  Jeune  homme — a  lad  of  barely 
fifteen " 

"  It  is  that  that  will  make  it  go  hard  for  him 
with  the  jury " 

"  Hard ! "  cried  the  ex-soldier,  getting  red  at 
once  with  the  jjassion  of  his  protest—"  hard — it 
ought  to  condemn  him,  to  guillotine  him.  What 
are  juries  for  if  they  don't  kill  such  rascals  as 
he?" 


286  THREE  NORMANDY  INNS. 

"  Doucement,  doucement,  monsieur,"  interrupted  the 
bell-note  of  the  merchant.  "  One  doesn't  condemn 
people  without  hearing  both  sides.  There  may 
be  extenuating  circumstances !  " 

"  Yes — there  are.  He  is  a  merchant.  All  mer- 
chants are  thieves.  He  does  as  all  others  do — 
07iJy  he  was  found  out." 

A  protesting  murmur  now  rose  from  the  table, 
above  which  rang  once  more,  in  clear  vibrations, 
the  deep  notes  of  the  merchant. 

"Ah — h,  mai.s — tons  voleurs- -non,  not  all  are 
thieves.  Commerce  conducted  on  such  princij)les 
as  that  could  not  exist.  Credit  is  not  founded 
on  fraud,  but  on  trust." 

"  Tres  Men,  ires  bien,"  assented  the  table.  Some 
knives  were  thumi)ed  to  emjahasize  the  assent. 

"  As  for  stealing " — the  rich  voice  continued, 
with  calm  judicial  sloA^Tiess — "  I  can  understand 
a  man's  cheating  the  state  once,  perhaps — yield- 
ing to  an  impulse  of  cupidity.  But  to  do  as  ce 
Monsieur  Filon  has  done — he  must  be  a  consum- 
mate master  of  his  art — for  his  processes  are  or- 
ganized robbery." 

"  Ah — h,  but  robbery  against  the  state  isn't  the 
same  thing  as  robbing  an  individual,"  cried  the 
exj)losive,  driven  into  a  corner. 

"It  is  quite  the  same — morally,  only  worse. 
For  a  man  who  robs  the  state  robs  everyone — in- 
cluding himself." 

"That's  true — perfectly  true — and  very  well 
put."  All  the  heads  about  the  table  nodded  ad- 
miringly :  their  hostess  had  expressed  the  views 
of  them  all.    The  company  was  looking  now  at  the 


THREE  NOBMANDT  INNS.  287 

gray  beard  witli  g-listening  eyes ;  lie  had  proved 
himself  master  of  the  argument,  and  all  were  de- 
sirous of  proving-  their  homage.  Not  one  of  the 
nice  ethical  points  touched  on  had  been  missed ; 
even  the  women  had  been  eagerly  listening-,  fol- 
lowing", criticising-.  Here  was  a  little  company 
of  people  g-athered  tog-ether  from  rustic  France, 
meeting,  perhaps,  for  the  first  time  at  this  board. 
And  the  conversation  had,  from  the  very  beginning-, 
been  such  as  one  commonly  expects  to  hear  only 
among  the  upper  ranks  of  metropolitan  circles. 
AVho  would  have  looked  to  see  a  company  of  Xor- 
man  provincials  talking  morality,  and  handling- 
ethics  with  the  skill  of  rhetoricians  ? 

Most  of  our  fellow-diners,  meanwhile,  were  tak- 
ing their  coffee  in  the  street.  Little  tables  were 
ranged  close  to  the  house- wall.  There  was  just 
room  for  a  bench  beside  the  table,  and  then  the 
sidewalk  ended. 

"  Shall  you  be  going-  to  the  trial  to-night  ? " 
courteously  asked  the  merchant  who  had  proven 
himself  a  master  in  debate,  of  Charm.  He  had 
lifted  his  hat  before  he  sat  down,  bowing-  to  her 
as  if  he  had  been  in  a  ball-room. 

"  It  v/ill  be  fine  to-night — it  is  the  opening-  of 
the  defence,"  he  added,  as  he  placed  carefully  two 
lumps  of  sugar  in  his  cup. 

"  It's  always  finer  at  night — what  with  the  lights 
and  the  people,  "  interpolated  the  landlady,  from 
her  perch  on  the  door-sill.  "  If  ces  dames  wish  to 
go,  I  can  show  them  the  way  to  the  g-alleries. 
Only,"  she  added,  with  a  warning-  tone,  her  grow- 
ing- excitement  obvious  at  the  sense  of  the  com- 


288  THREE  NORMANDY  INNS. 

ing-  pleasure,  "it  is  like  the  theatre.  The  earlier 
we  get  there  the  better  the  seat.  I  go  to  get  my 
hat."    And  the  door  swallowed  her  up. 

"  She  is  right — it  is  like  a  theatre,"  soliloquized 
the  merchant — "  and  so  is  life.     Poor  Filon  !  " 

We  should  have  been  very  content  to  remain 
where  we  were.  The  night  had  fallen ;  the 
streets,  as  they  lost  themselves  in  dim  turnings, 
in  mysterious  alleyways,  and  arches  that  seemed 
irrotesquely  high  in  the  vague  blur  of  things, 
were  filled  for  us  with  the  charm  of  a  new  and 
lovely  beauty.  At  one  end  the  street  ended  in  a 
towering'  mass  of  stone ;  that  doubtless  was  the 
cathedral.  At  the  right,  the  narrow  houses 
dipped  suddenly ;  their  roof -lines  were  lost  in 
vagueness.  Between  the  slit  made  by  the  street 
a  deep,  vast  chasm  opened ;  it  was  the  night  fill- 
ing the  great  width  of  sky,  and  the  mists  that 
shrouded  the  hill,  rising  out  of  the  sleeping-  earth. 
There  was  only  one  single  line  of  light;  a  long- 
deep  glow  was  banding  the  horizon ;  it  was  a  bit 
of  flame  the  dusk  held  up,  like  a  fading  torch,  to 
show  where  the  sun  had  reigned. 

In  and  out  of  this  dusk  the  townspeople  came 
and  went.  Away  from  the  mellow  lights,  stream- 
ing past  the  open  inn  doors,  the  shajjes  were 
only  a  part  of  the  blur;  they  were  vague,  phan- 
tasmal masses,  clad  in  coarse  draperies.  As  they 
passed  into  the  circle  of  light,  the  faces  showed 
features  we  had  grown  to  know — the  high  cheek- 
bones, the  ruddy  tones,  the  deep-set,  serious 
eyes,  and  firm  mouths,  with  lips  close  to- 
g-ether.    The  air  on  this  hill-top  must  be  of  ex- 


THREE  NORMANDY  INNS.  289 

cellent  quality;  the  life  up  liere  could  scarcely 
be  so  hard  as  in  the  field  villages.  For  the 
women  looked  less  worn,  and  less  hideously  old, 
and  in  the  men's  eyes  there  was  not  so  hard  and 
miserly  a  glittering-. 

Almost  all,  young  or  old,  were  bearing  strange 
burdens.  Some  of  the  men  w^ere  carrying  huge 
floral  crosses ;  the  women  were  laden  with  every 
conceivable  variety  of  object — with  candlesticks, 
vases,  urns,  linen  sheets,  rugs,  with  chairs  even. 

"  They  are  helping  to  dress  the  reposoirs,  they 
must  all  be  in  readiness  for  the  morning,"  an- 
swered our  friend,  still  beside  us,  when  we  asked 
the  cause  of  this  astonishing  spectacle. 

Everywhere  garlands  and  firs,  leaves,  flowers, 
and  wreaths  ;  j)eople  moving  rapidly;  the  carriers 
of  the  crosses  stopping  to  chat  for  an  instant  with 
groups  working  at  some  mysterious  scaffolding — 
all  shapes  in  darkness.  Everywhere,  also,  there 
was  the  sweet,  aromatic  scent  of  the  greens  and 
the  pines  abroad  in  the  still,  clear  air  of  the  sum- 
mer night. 

This  was  the  perfume  and  these  the  dim  pict- 
ures that  were  our  company  along  the  narrow 
Coutances  streets. 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 


A   SCENE    IX   A   NORMAN   COURT. 


The  court-room  was  brig-htly 
lighted;  the  yellow  radi- 
ance on  the  white  walls 
made  the  eyes  blink.  We 
had  turned,  following-  our 
guide,  from  the  gloom  of 
the  dim  streets  into  the 
roomy  corridors  of  the 
Prefecture.  Even  the  gar- 
dens about  the  building 
were  swarming  with  townsjieople  and  peasants 
waiting  for  the  court  to  open.  "When  we  entered 
it  was  to  find  the  hallways  and  stairs  blocked  with 
a  struggling  mass  of  jieople,  all  eager  to  get  seats. 
A  voice  that  was  softened  to  a  purring  note,  the 
Yoice  that  goes  with  the  pursuit  of  the  five-franc 
piece,  spoke  to  our  landlady.  "The  seats  to  be 
reserved  in  the  tribune  were  for  these  ladies  ?  " 

No  time  had  been  lost,  you  perceive.  We  were 
strangers ;  the  courtesies  of  the  town  were  to  be 
extended  to  us.  We  were  to  have  of  their  best, 
here  in  Coutances ;  and  their  best,  just  now,  was 
this  mise-en-scene  in  their  court-room. 

The  stage  was  well  set.  The  Frenchman's  in- 
stinctive sense  of  fitness  was  obvious  in  the  ar- 


THREE  NORMANDY  INNS.  291 

rangements.  Long-  lines  of  blue  drapery  from 
the  tall  windows  brought  the  groups  below  into 
high  relief;  the  scarlet  of  the  judges' robes  was 
doubly  impressive  ag-aiust  this  background.  The 
lawyers,  in  their  flowing  black  gowns  and  white 
ties,  gained  added  dignitj'^  from  the  marine  note 
behind  them.  The  bluish  pallor  of  the  walls  made 
the  accused  and  the  group  about  him  pathetically 
sombre.  Each  one  of  this  little  group  was  in  black. 
The  accused  himself,  a  sharp,  shrew^l,  too  keen-eyed 
man  of  thirty  or  so,  might  have  been  following  a 
corpse — so  black  was  his  raiment.  Even  the  youth 
beside  him,  a  dull,  sodden-eyed  lad,  with  an  air  of 
being-  here  not  on  his  own  account,  but  because 
he  had  been  forced  to  come,  was  clad  in  deepest 
mourning.  By  the  side  of  the  culprit  sat  the  one 
really  tragic  fig'ure  in  all  the  court — the  culprit's 
wife.  She  also  w^as  in  black.  In  happier  times 
she  must  have  been  a  fair,  fresh-colored  blonde. 
Now  all  the  color  was  g-one  from  her  cheek.  She 
was  as  pale  as  death,  and  in  her  sweet  downcast 
eyes  there  were  the  tell-tale  vigils  of  long-  nights 
of  weeping.  Beside  her  sat  an  elderly  man  who 
bent  over  her,  talking,  whispering-,  commenting-  as 
the  trial  went  on. 

Every  eye  in  the  tribune  was  fixed  on  the  slim 
young  figure.  A  passing-  g-lance  sufficed,  as  a  rule, 
for  the  culprit  and  his  accomplice ;  but  it  was 
on  the  wife  that  all  the  quick  French  sympathy, 
that  volubly  spoke  itself  out,  was  lavished.  The 
blouses  andjjeasants'  caps,  the  tradesmen  and  their 
wives  crowded  close  about  the  railing  to  pass  their 
comment. 


292  THREE  NORMANDY  INNS. 

"  She  looks  far  more  guilty  than  he,"  muttered 
a  wizened  old  man  next  to  us,  very  crooked  on  his 
three-legged  stool. 

"  Yes,"  warmly  added  a  stout  capped  peasant, 
with  a  basket  once  on  her  arm,  now  serving  as  a 
liedestal  to  raise  the  higher  above  the  others  her 
own  curiosit}'.  "  Yes — she  has  her  modesty — too 
— to  siDeak  for  her " 

"  Bah — all  i^ut  on — to  soften  the  jiuy."  It  was 
our  fiery  one  of  the  table  d'hote  who  had  wedged 
his  way  toward  us. 

"  And  wh}'  not  ?  A  woman  must  make  use  of 
what  weapons  she  has  at  hand " 

"  Silence  !  Silence  !  messieurs  f  "  The  huissier 
brought  do"^Ti  his  staff  of  office  with  a  ring.  The 
clatter  of  sabots  over  the  wooden  floor  of  the  tri- 
bune and  the  loud  talking  were  disturbing  the 
court. 

This  French  court,  as  a  court,  sat  in  strange 
fashion,  it  seemed  to  us.  The  bench  was  on 
wonderfully  friendly  terms  with  the  table  about 
which  the  clerks  sat,  with  the  lawyers,  with  the 
foreman  of  the  jury,  with  even  the  huissiers.  Mon- 
sieur le  President  was  in  his  robes,  but  he  wore 
them  as  negligently  as  he  did  the  dignity  of  his 
office.  He  and  the  lawyer  for  the  defence,  a  noted 
Coutances  orator,  openly  wrangled;  the  latter,  in- 
deed, took  little  or  no  pains  to  show  him  respect ; 
now  they  joked  together,  next  a  retort  flashed 
forth  which  began  a  quarrel,  and  the  court  and 
the  trial  looked  on  as  both  struggled  for  a  mastery 
in  the  art  of  personal  abuse.  The  lawyer  made 
nothing  of  raising  his  finger,  to  shake  it  in  open 


THREE  NORMANDY  INNS.  293 

menace  in  the  very  teeth  of  the  scarlet  robes.  And 
the  robes  clad  a  purple-faced  figure  that  retorted 
ang-rily,  like  a  fighting-  school-boy. 

But  to  Coutances,  this,  it  appears,  was  a  projDer 
way  for  a  court  to  sit. 

"  All,  D'AIenQon — il  est  fort,  lui.  C'est  lui  qui  agace 
toujours  monsieur'  le  president " 

"He'll  win — he'll  make  a  great  speech — he  is 
never  really  fine  unless  it's  a  question  of  life  or 

death "     Such  were  the   criticisms  that  were 

poured  out  from  the  quick-speaking  lips  about  us. 

Presently  a  simultaneous  movement  on  the  part 
of  the  jury  brought  the  i^roceedings  to  confusion. 
A  witness  in  the  act  of  giving  evidence  stopped 
short  in  his  sentence  ;  he  twisted  his  head ;  look- 
ing upward,  he  asked  a  question  of  the  foreman, 
and  the  latter  nodded,  as  if  assenting-.  The  judge 
then  looked  up.  All  the  court  looked  up.  All 
the  heads  were  twisted.  Something  obviously 
was  wrong.  Then,  i^resently  the  concierge  ap- 
I)eared  with  a  huge  bunch  of  keys. 

And  all  the  court  waited  in  jDcrfect  stillness — 
while  the  windows  were  being  closed  ! 

"U  y  avail  un  courant  d'air — there  was  a 
draught," — gravely  announced  the  crooked  man, 
as  he  rose  to  let  the  concierge  pass.  This  latter 
had  her  views  of  a  court  so  susceptible  to  whiffs 
of  night  air. 

"  Ces  messieurs  are  delicate — pity  they  have  to  be 
out  at  night !  " — whereat  the  tribune  snickered. 

All  went  on  bravely  for  a  good  half -hour.  More 
witnesses  were  called ;  each  answered  with  won- 
derful  aptness,    ease,  and  clearness ;   none  were 


294  THREE  NORMANDY  INNS. 

confused  or  timid ;  these  were  not  men  to  be 
the  playthings  of  others  who  made  tortuous 
cross-questionings  their  trade.  They,  also,  were 
Frenchmen ;  they  knew  how  to  speak.  The  judge 
and  the  Coutances  lawyer  continued  their  jokes 
and  their  squabblings.  And  still  only  the  poor 
wife  hung  her  head 

Then  all  at  once  the  judge  began  to  mop  his 
brow.  The  jury,  to  a  man,  mopped  theirs.  The 
witnesses  and  lawyers  each  brought  forth  their 
big  silk  handkerchiefs.  All  the  court  was  wiping 
its  brow. 

"  It's  the  heat,"  cried  the  judge.  "  Huissier,  call 
the  concierge;  tell  her  to  open  the  windows." 

The  concierge  reappeared.  Flushed  this  time, 
and  with  anger  in  her  eye.  She  pushed  her  way 
through  the  crowd ;  she  took  not  the  least  pains 
in  the  world  to  conceal  her  opinion  of  a  court  as 
variable  as  this  one. 

"  All  metis,  this  is  too  much !  if  the  jury  doesn't 
know  its  mind  better  than  this  !  "—and  in  the  fury 
of  her  wrath  she  well-nigh  upset  the  crooked  little 
old  gentleman  and  his  three-legged  stool. 

"  That's  right — that's  right.  I'm  not  a  fine  lady, 
tip  me  over.  You  open  and  shut  me  as  if  I  were 
a  bureau  drawer  ;  continues — coniinuez " 

The  concierge  had  readied  the  windows  now. 
She  was  opening  and  slamming  them  in  the  face 
of  the  judge,  the  jury,  and  messieurs  les  huissiers, 
with  unabashed  violence.  The  court,  except  for 
that  one  figure  in  sombre  drai^eries,  being  men, 
suft'ered  this  violence  as  only  men  bear  with  a 
woman  in  a  temper.     With  the  letting  in  of  the 


THREE  NORMANDY  INNS.  295 

fresh  air,  fresli  energy  in  the  prosecution  mani- 
fested itself.  The  witnesses  were  being  sub- 
jected to  inquisitorial  torture ;  their  answers 
were  still  glib,  but  the  faces  were  studies  of  the 
passions  held  in  the  leash  of  self-control.  Not 
twenty  minutes  had  ticked  their  beat  of  time 
when  once  more  the  jury,  to  a  man,  showed  signs 
of  shivering.  Half  a  dozen  gravely  took  out  their 
pocket-handkerchiefs,  and  as  gravely  covered  their 
heads.  Others  knotted  the  square  of  linen,  thus 
making  a  closer  head-gear.  The  judge  turned  un- 
easily in  his  own  chair ;  he  gave  a  furtive  glance 
at  the  still  open  windows ;  as  he  did  so  he  caught 
sight  of  his  jury  thus  patiently  suflfering.  The 
spectacle  went  to  his  heart ;  these  gentlemen  were 
again  in  a  draught  ?  Where  was  the  concierge  ? 
Then  the  huissier  whispered  in  the  judge's  ear; 
no  one  heard,  but  everyone  divined  the  whisper. 
It  was  to  remind  monsieur  le  president  that  the 
concierge  was  in  a  temper ;  would  it  not  be  bet- 
ter for  him,  the  huissier,  to  close  the  windows? 
Without  a  smile  the  judge  bent  his  head,  assent- 
ing. And  once  more  all  proceedings  were  at  a 
standstill ;  the  court  was  patiently  waiting,  once 
more,  for  the  windows  to  be  closed. 

Now,  in  all  this,  no  one,  not  even  the  wizened 
old  man  who  was  obviously  the  humorist  of  the 
tribune,  had  seen  anything  farcical.  To  be  too 
hot — to  be  too  cold !  this  is  a  serious  matter  in 
France.  A  jury  surely  has  a  right  to  protect  itself 
against  cold,  against  la  migraine,  and  the  devils  of 
rheumatism  and  pleurisy.  There  is  nothing  ridic- 
ulous in  twelve  men  sitting  in  judgment  on  a  fel- 


296  THREE  NORMANDY  INNS. 

low-man,  with  their  handkerchiefs  covering"  their 
bare  heads.  Nor  of  a  judge  who  gallantl}'  remem- 
bers the  temper  of  a  concierge.  Nor  of  a  whole 
court  sitting-  in  silence,  while  the  windows  are 
opened  and  closed.  There  was  nothing-  in  all  this 
to  tickle  the  play  of  French  humor.  But  then,  we 
remembered,  France  is  not  the  land  of  humorists, 
but  of  wits.  Monsieur  d'Alengon  doAvn  yonder,  as 
he  rises  from  his  chair  to  address  the  judge  and 
jury,  will  j)rove  to  you  and  mCj  in  the  next  two 
hours,  how  great  an  orator  a  Frenchman  can  be, 
without  trenching-  an  inch  on  the  humorist's 
ground. 

The  court-room  was  so  still  now  that  you  could 
have  heard  the  fall  of  a  jjin. 

At  last  the  great  moment  had  come — the  mo- 
ment and  the  man.  There  is  nothing  in  life 
Frenchmen  love  better  than  a  good  speech — un 
discours ;  and  to  have  the  same  pitched  in  the 
dramatic  key,  with  a  tragic  result  hanging  on  the 
effects  of  the  pleading,  this  is  the  very  climax  of 
enjoyment.  To  a  Norman,  oratory  is  not  second, 
but  first,  nature ;  all  the  men  of  this  province  have 
inherited  the  gift  of  a  facile  eloquence.  But  this 
Monsieur  d'Alen^on,  the  crooked  man  whispered, 
in  hurried  explanation,  he  was  un  fameux — even 
the  Paris  courts  had  to  send  for  him  when  they 
wanted  a  great  orator. 

The  famous  lawyer  understood  the  alphabet  of 
his  calling.  He  knew  the  value  of  effect.  He 
threw  himself  at  once  into  the  orator's  pose.  His 
gown  took  sculptural  lines ;  his  arms  were  waved 
majestically,  as  arms  that  were  conscious  of  hav- 


THREE  NORMANDY  INNS.  297 

ing"  great  sleeves  to  accentuate  the  lines  of  gest- 
ure. 

Then  he  began  to  speak.  The  voice  was  soft ;  at 
first  one  was  chiefly  conscious  of  the  music  in  its 
cadences.  But  as  it  warmed  and  grew  with  the 
ardor  of  the  words,  the  room  was  filled  with  such 
vibrations  as  usually  come  only  with  the  sounding- 
of  rich  wind-instruments.  With  such  a  voice  a 
man  could  do  anything.  D'Alen^on  i^laj^ed  with 
it  as  a  man  plays  with  a  power  he  has  both  trained 
and  conquered.  It  was  firmly  modulated,  with 
no  accent  of  symxaathy  when  he  opened  his  plea 
for  his  client.  It  warmed  slightly  when  he  indig- 
nantly repelled  the  charges  brought  against  the 
latter.  It  took  the  cadence  of  a  lover  when  he 
pointed  to  the  young  wife's  figure  and  asked  if  it 
were  likely  a  husband  could  be  g'uilty  of  such 
crimes,  year  after  year,  with  such  a  woman  as  that 
beside  him  ?  It  was  tenderly  explanatory^  as  he 
went  on  enlarging  on  the  young  wife's  perfections, 
on  her  character,  so  well  known  to  them  all  here 
in  Coutances,  on  the  influence  she  had  given  the 
home-life  yonder  in  Cherbourg-.  Even  the  chil- 
dren were  not  forgotten,  as  an  aid  to  incidental 
testimony.  Was  it  even  conceivable  a  father  of  a 
young"  family  would  lead  an  innocent  lad  into 
error,  fraud,  and  theft  ? 

"  It  is  he  who  knows  how  to  touch  the  heart !  " 

"  Qv£l  beau  moment  /  "  cried  the  wizened  man,  in 
a  transport. 

"  See — the  jury  weep  !  " 

All  the  court  was  in  tears,  even  monsieur  le 
president  snifiied,  and  yet  there  was  no  draught. 


298  THREE  NORMANDY  INNS. 

As  for  the  peasant  women  and  the  shop-keepers, 
they  couki  not  have  been  more  moved  if  the  cul- 
prit had  been  a  blood-relation.  How  they  en- 
joyed their  tears  !  What  a  delight  it  was  to  thus 
thrill  and  shiver !  The  wife  was  sobbing-  now, 
with  her  head  on  her  uncle's  shoulder.  And  the 
culprit  was  acting  his  part,  also,  to  perfection. 
He  had  been  firmly  stoical  until  now.  But  at  this 
parade  of  his  wife's  virtues  he  broke  down,  his 
head  was  bowed  at  last.  It  was  all  the  tribune 
could  do  to  keep  its  applause  from  breaking  forth. 
It  Avas  such  a  perfect  performance  !  it  was  as  good 
as  the  theatre — far  better — for  this  Avas  real — this 
play — with  a  man's  whole  future  at  stake  ! 

Until  midnight  the  lawyer  held  all  in  the  town 
in  a  trance.  He  ended  at  last  with  a  Ciceronian, 
declamatory  outburst.  A  great  buzz  of  applause 
welled  up  from  the  court.  The  tribune  was  in 
transports:  such  a  magnificent  harangue  he  had 
not  given  them  in  years.  It  was  one  of  his  great- 
est victories. 

"  And  his  victories,  madame,  they  are  the  vic- 
tories of  all  Coutances." 

The  crooked  man  almost  stood  upright  in  the 
excitement  of  his  enthusiasm.  Great  drops  of 
sweat  were  on  his  wrinkled  old  brow.  The  even- 
ing had  been  a  great  event  in  his  life,  as  his 
twisted  frame,  all  a-tremble  with  pleasurable  ela- 
tion, exultingl}^  proved.  The  women's  caj^s  were 
closer  together  than  ever ;  they  were  pressing  in 
a  solid  mass  close  to  the  railing  of  the  tribune  to 
gain  one  last  look  at  the  figure  of  the  wife. 

"  It  is  she  who  will  not  sleep " 


THREE  NORMANDY  INNS.  299 

"  Poor  soul,  are  lier  children  with  her  ?  " 

"  No — and  no  women  either.  There  is  only  the 
uncle." 

"  He  is  a  good  man,  he  will  comfort  her !  " 

"  Faut  prier  le  hon  Dieu  !  " 

At  the  court-room  door  there  was  a  last  glimpse 
of  the  stricken  figure.  She  disappeared  into  the 
blackness  of  the  night,  bent  and  feeble,  leaning 
with  pitiful  attempt  at  dignity  on  the  uncle's  arm. 
With  the  dawn  she  would  learn  her  husband's  fate. 
The  jury  would  be  out  all  night. 

"  You  see,  madame,  it  is  she  who  must  really 
suffer  in  the  end."  AVe  were  also  walking  into 
the  night,  through  the  bushes  of  the  garden,  to 
the  dark  of  the  streets.  Our  landlady  was  guid- 
ing us,  and  talking  volubly.  She  was  still  under 
the  influence  of  the  i^ast  hour's  excitement.  Her 
voice  trembled  audibly,  and  she  was  walking  with 
brisk  strides  through  the  dim  streets. 

"  If  Filou  is  condemned,  what  would  happen  to 
them  ? " 

"  Oh,  he  would  pass  a  few  years  in  prison — not 
manj^.  The  jury  is  always  easy  on  the  rich.  But 
his  future  is  ruined.  They — the  family — would 
have  to  go  away.  But  even  then,  rumor  would 
follow  them.  It  travels  far  nowadays — it  has  a 
thousand  legs,  as  they  say  here.  "Wherever  they 
go  they  will  be  known.  But  Monsieur  d'Aleugon, 
what  did  you  think  of  him,  hein  ?  There's  a  great 
man — what  an  orator!  One  must  go  as  far  as 
Paris — to  the  theatre ;  one  must  hear  a  great  play 
— and  even  there,  when  does  an  actor  make  you 
weep   as  he  did  ?     Henri,  he  was  superb.     I  tell 


300  THREE  NORMANDY  INNS. 

you,  superb !  cVune  eloquence  !  "  And  to  her  hus- 
band, when  we  reached  the  inn  door,  our  viva- 
cious landlady  was  still  narrating-  the  chief  points 
of  the  speech  as  we  crawled  wearily  up  to  our 
beds. 

It  was  early  the  next  morning-  when  we  descend- 
ed into  the  inn  dining-room.  The  lawyer's  elo- 
quence had  interfered  with  our  rest.  Coffee  and 
a  bite  of  fresh  air  were  best  taken  together,  we 
agreed.  Before  the  coffee  came  the  news  of  the 
culprit's  fate.  Most  of  the  inn  establishment  had 
been  sent  to  court  to  learn  the  jury's  verdict. 
Madame  confessed  to  a  sleepless  night.  The 
thought  of  that  poor  wife  had  haunted  her  pillow. 
She  had  deemed  it  best — but  just  to  us  all,  in  a 
word,  to  despatch  Auguste — the  one  inn  waiter,  to 
hear  the  verdict.  Tiens,  there  he  was  now,  turn- 
ing the  street  corner. 

"  II  est  acquitte  !  "  rang  through  the  streets. 

"He  is  acquitted — he  is  acquitted  !  Le  bon  Dieu 
soit  lorn  !  Henri — Ernest — Monsieur  Terier,  he 
is  acquitted—  he  is  acquitted !     I  tell  you  !  " 

The  crj"  rang  through  the  house.  Our  landlady 
was  shouting  the  news  out  of  doors,  through  win- 
dows, to  the  passers-by,  to  the  very  dogs  as  they 
ran.  But  the  townsioeople  needed  no  summon- 
ing. The  windows  were  crowded  full  of  eager 
heads,  all  asking  the  same  question  at  once.  A 
company  of  peasants  coming  \i\)  from  the  fields 
for  breakfast  stopped  to  hear  the  glad  tidings. 
The  shop-keepers  all  the  length  of  the  street 
gathered  to  join  them.  Everyone  was  talking  at 
once.     Every  shade  of  opinion  was  aired  in  the 


THREE  NORMANDY  INNS.  301 

morning"  sun.     On  one  subject  alone  there  was  a 
universal  agreement. 

"  What  good  news  for  the  poor  wife  !  " 
"And  what  a  night  she  must  have  passed  ! " 
All  this  sympathy  and  interest,  be  it  remem- 
bered, was  for  one  they  barely  knew.  To  be  the 
niece  of  a  Coutances  uncle — this  was  enough,  it 
appears,  for  the  good  people  of  this  cathedral 
city,  to  insure  the  flow  of  their  tears  and  the  gift 
of  their  prayers. 


CHAPTER  XXVII. 


THE   FETE-DIEU^A   JUNE   CHEISTMAS. 


When  we  stepped  forth  into 
the  streets,  it  was  to  find  a 
flower  -  strewn  city.  The 
paving-stones  were  covered 
with  the  needles  of  pines, 
with  fir-boug'hs,  with  rose- 
leaves,  lily  stocks,  and  with 
the  petals  of  flock  and  cle- 
matis. One's  feet  sank  into 
the  odorous  carpet  as  in  the 
thick  wool  of  an  Oriental  prayer-rug".  To  tread 
upon  this  verdure  was  to  crush  out  perfume.  Yet 
the  fragrance  had  a  solemn  flavor.  There  was  a 
touch  of  consecration  in  the  very  aroma  of  the 
fir-sap. 

Never  was  there  a  town  so  given  over  to  its 
festival.  Everything  else — all  trade,  commerce, 
occupation,  work,  or  pleasure  even,  was  at  a  dead 
standstill.  In  all  the  city  there  was  but  one 
thought,  one  object,  one  end  in  view.  This  was 
the  great  day  of  the  Feie-Dieu.  To  this  blessed 
feast  of  the  Sacrament  the  townspeople  had  been 
looking  forward  for  weeks. 

It  is  their  June  Christmas.  The  great  day 
brings  families  together. 


THREE  NORMANDY  INNS.  303 

From  all  the  country  round  the  farm  wagons  had 
been  climbing-  the  hill  for  hours.  The  peasants 
were  in  holiday  dress.  Gold  crosses  and  amber 
beads  encircled  leathery  old  necks ;  the  gossamer 
caps,  real  Normandy  caps  at  last,  crowned  heads 
held  erect  to-day,  with  the  pride  of  those  who  had 
come  to  town  clad  in  their  best.  Even  the  younger 
women  were  in  true  peasant  garb ;  there  was  a 
touch  of  a  ribbon,  brilliant  red  and  blue  stockings, 
and  the  sparkle  of  silver  shoe-buckles  and  gold 
necklaces  to  prove  they  had  donned  their  finerj^ 
in  honor  of  the  fete.  The  men  wore  their  blue 
and  puri:)le  blouses  over  their  holiday  suits:  but 
almost  all  had  jiinned  a  sprig  of  bright  geranium 
or  honeysuckle  to  brighten  up  the  shiny  cotton 
of  the  preservative  blouse.  Even  the  children  car- 
ried bouquets  ;  and  thvis  many  of  the  farm  wagons 
were  as  gay  as  the  streets. 

No,  gay  is  not  the  word.  Neither  the  city  nor 
the  streets  were  really  gay.  The  city,  as  a  city, 
was  too  dead  in  earnest,  too  absorbed,  too  intent, 
to  indulge  in  gayety.  It  was  the  greatest  of  all 
the  days  of  the  year  in  Coutances.  In  the  cli- 
maxic  moments  of  life,  one  is  solemn,  not  gay. 
It  was  not  only  the  greatest,  but  the  busiest,  day 
of  the  year  for  this  cathedral  town.  Here  was  a 
whole  city  to  deck ;  every  street,  every  alleyway 
must  be  as  beautiful  as  a  church  on  a  feast-day. 
The  city,  in  truth,  must  be  changed  from  a  bust- 
ling, trading,  commercial  entrepot  into  an  altar. 
And  this  altar  must  be  beautiful — as  beautiful, 
as  ingeniously  picturesque  as  only  the  French 
instinct  for  beauty  could  make  it. 


304  THREE  NORMANDY  INNS. 

Thiuk  you,  with  such  a  task  on  haucl,  this  city- 
ful  of  artists  had  time  for  frivolous  iJliug'  ]  Since 
dawn  these  artists  had  been  scrubbing-  their 
doors,  washing"  windows,  and  sluicing  the  gutters. 
One  is  not  a  provincial  for  nothing- ;  one  is  hon- 
est in  the  provinces ;  one  does  not  drape  finery 
over  a  filthy  frame.  The  city  was  washed  first, 
before  it  was  adorned. 

Opposite,  across  from  our  inn  door-sill,  where 
we  lingered  a  moment  before  we  began  our  jour- 
ney through  the  streets,  we  could  see  for  our- 
selves how  thorough  was  this  cleansing.  A  shop- 
keeper and  his  wife  were  each  mounted  on  a 
step-ladder.  One  washed  the  inside  and  the  other 
the  outside  of  the  low  shop -windows.  They  were 
in  the  greatest  possible  haste,  for  they  were  late 
in  their  preparations.  In  two  hours  the  proces- 
sion was  to  pass.  Their  neighbors  stopped  to  cry 
up  to  them : 

"  Tendez-vous,  aujourcVhid  ?  "  It  is  the  universal 
question,  heard  everywhere. 

"  Mais  Old"  croaked  out  the  man,  his  voice 
sounding  like  the  croak  of  a  rook,  from  the  height 
from  which  he  spoke.  "  Only  we  are  late,  you 
see." 

It  was  his  wife  who  was  taking-  the  question  to 
heart.     She  saw  in  it  just  cause  for  affii-ont. 

"  Ah,  those  Espergnons,  they're  always  on  time, 
they  are;  they  had  their  hanging-s  out  a  week 
ago,  and  now  they  are  as  filthy  as  wash-rags.  No 
wonder  they  have  time  to  walk  the  streets !  "  and 
the  indignant  dame  gave  her  window-pane  an 
extra  polish. 


THREE  NORMANDY  INNS.  305 

"  Here,  Leon,  catch  hold,  I'm  ready  now  !  " 
The  woman  was  hokling-  out  one  end  of  a  long-, 
snowy  sheet.  Leon  meekly  took  his  end ;  both 
hooked  the  stuff  to  some  rings  ready  to  secure  the 
hang-ing- ;  the  fagade  of  the  little  house  Avas  soon 
hidden  behind  the  white  fall  of  the  family  linen  ; 
and  presently  Leon  and  his  wife  beg-an  xexj  g-ravely 
to  pin  tiny  sprigs  of  purple  clematis  across  the 
white  surface.  This  latter  decoration  was  jDer- 
formed  with  the  sure  touch  of  artists.  No  mediae- 
val desig-ner  of  tapestry  could  have  chosen,  with 
more  secure  selection,  the  precise  points  of  dis- 
tance at  which  to  place  the  bouquets ;  nor  could  the 
tones  and  tints  of  the  g-reens  and  jDurples,  and  the 
velvet  of  the  occasional  heartsease,  sparsely  used, 
have  been  more  correctly  combined.  When  the  task 
was  ended,  the  commonplace  house  was  a  palace 
wall,  hung-  with  the  sheen  of  fine  linen,  on  which 
bloomed  geometric  figures  beautifully  spaced. 

All  the  city  was  thus  draped.  One  walked 
through  long  walls  of  snow,  in  which  flowers 
grew.  Sometimes  the  floral  decorations  expand- 
ed from  the  more  common  sprig  into  wreaths  and 
garlands.  Here  and  there  the  Coutances  fancy 
worked  itself  out  in  JJeur-dc-lis  emblems  or  in  ar- 
morial bearings.  But  everywhere  an  astonishing, 
instinctive  sense  of  beauty,  a  knowledge  of  jaro- 
j)ortion,  and  a  natural  sense  for  color  were  ob- 
vious. There  was  not,  in  all  the  town,  a  single  of- 
fence committed  against  taste.  Is  it  any  wonder, 
with  such  an  heredity  at  their  fingers'  ends,  that 
the  provinces  feed  Paris,  and  that  Paris  sets  the 
fashions  in  beauty  for  the  rest  of  the  world  ? 


306  THREE  NORMANDY  INNS. 

Come  with  us,  and  look  upon  this  open-air 
chapel.  It  stands  iu  the  oj^en  street,  in  front  of 
an  old  house  of  imposing  aspect.  The  two  com- 
monplace-looking- women  who  are  iDutting-  the 
finishing  touches  to  this  beautiful  creation  tell  us 
it  is  the  reposoir  of  Madame  la  Baronne.  They 
have  been  working  on  it  since  the  day  before.  In 
the  night  the  miracle  was  finished — nearly — they 
Avere  so  weary  they  had  gone  to  bed  at  dawn. 
They  do  not  tell  you  it  is  a  miracle.  They  think 
it  fine,  oh,  yes — "  cest  beau — Madame  la  Baronne 
always  has  the  most  beautiful  of  all  the  reposoirs," 
but  then  they  have  decked  these  altars  since  they 
were  born ;  their  grandmothers  built  them  before 
ever  they  saw  the  light.  For  always  in  Coutances 
"on  la  f tie  beaucoup ;  "  this  feast  of  the  Sacrament 
has  been  a  great  day  in  Coutances  for  centuries 
past.  But  although  they  are  so  used  to  it,  these 
natural  architects  love  the  day.  "  It's  so  fine  to 
see — si  beau  a  vol}' — all  the  reposoirs,  and  the 
children  and  the  fine  ladies  walking  through  the 
streets,  and  then,  all  kneeling  when  Monseigneur 
I'Archeveque  prays.  Ah  yes,  it  is  a  fine  sight." 
They  nod,  and  smile,  and  then  they  turn  to  light  a 
taper,  and  to  consult  about  the  placing  of  a  certain 
vase  from  out  of  which  an  Easter  lilj^  towers. 

At  the  foot  of  these  miniature  altars  trees  had 
been  planted.  Gardens  had  also  been  laid  out; 
the  parterres  were  as  gravely  watered  as  if  they 
were  to  remain  in  the  middle  of  a  biistling  high 
street  in  perpetuity.  Steps  lead  up  to  the  altar. 
These  were  covered  with  rugs  and  carpets ;  for  the 
feet  of  the  bishop  must  tread  only  on  velvet  and 


THREE  NORMANDY  INNS.  307 

flowers.  Candelabra,  vases,  banners,  crosses,  cru- 
cifixes, flowers,  and  tall  thin  tapers — all  tlie  altars 
were  crowded  with  such  adornments.  Human 
vanity  and  the  love  of  surpassing  one's  neighbors, 
these  also  figured  consi^icuously  among  the  things 
the  fitfully  shining-  sun  looks  down  upon.  But 
what  a  charm  there  is  in  such  a  contest !  Surely 
the  desire  to  beautify  the  spot  on  which  the 
Blessed  Sacrament  rests — this  is  only  another 
way  of  professing  one's  adoration. 

As  we  passed  through  the  streets  a  multitude  of 
jiictures  crowded  upon  the  eyes.  In  an  archway 
groups  of  young  first  communicants  were  forming; 
they  were  on  their  way  to  the  cathedral.  Their 
white  veils  against  the  gloom  of  the  recessed 
archways  were  like  sunlit  clouds  caught  in  an 
abyss.  Priests  in  gorgeous  vestments  were  walk- 
ing quickly  through  the  streets.  All  the  peasants 
were  going  also  toward  the  cathedral.  A  grouiD 
stopped,  as  did  we,  to  turn  into  a  side-street.  For 
there  was  a  picture  we  should  not  see  later  on. 
Between  some  lovely  old  turrets,  down  from  con- 
vent walls  a  group  of  nuns  fluttered  tremulously ; 
they  were  putting  the  last  touches  to  the  reposoir 
of  their  own  Sacre  Coeur.  Some  were  carrying 
huge  gilt  crosses,  staggering  as  they  walked ; 
others  were  on  tiptoe  filling'  the  tall  vases ; 
others  were  on  their  knees,  patting  into  perfect 
smoothness  the  turf  laid  about  the  altar  steps. 
There  was  an  old  cure  among  them  and  a  young 
carpenter  whom  the  cure  was  directing.  Every- 
one of  the  nuns  had  her  black  skirts  tucked  up  ; 
their  stout   shoes  must   be  free   to  fly  over  the 


308  THREE  NORMANDY  INNS. 

ground  with  the  swiftness  of  hounds.  How  pretty 
the  faces  were,  under  the  great  caps,  in  that 
moment  of  unwonted  excitement !  The  cheeks, 
even  of  the  okler  nuns,  were  pink ;  it  was  a  pink 
that  made  their  habitual  iDallor  have  a  dazzling" 
beauty.  The  eyes  were  lighted  into  a  fresh  flame 
of  life,  and  the  lips  were  temptingly  crimson ; 
they  were  only  women,  after  all,  these  nuns,  and 
once  a  year  at  least  this  feast  of  the  Sacrament 
brings  all  their  feminine  activities  into  plaj'. 

Still  we  moved  on,  for  within  the  cathedral 
the  procession  had  not  yet  formed.  There  was 
still  time  to  make  a  tour  of  the  town. 

To  plunge  into  the  side-streets  away  from  the 
wide  cathedral  parvis,was  to  be  confronted  with  a 
strange  calm.  These  narrow  thoroughfares  had 
the  stillness  which  broods  over  all  ancient  cities' 
bj^-ways.  Here  was  no  festival  bustle ;  all  was 
grave  and  sad.  The  only  dwellers  left  in  the  an- 
tique fifteenth  century  houses  were  those  who 
must  remain  at  home  till  a  still  smaller  house 
holds  them.  We  passed  several  aged  Coutan^ais 
couples.  By  twos  they  were  seated  at  the  low 
windows ;  they  had  been  dressed  and  then  left ; 
they  were  sitting  here,  in  the  pathetic  x)atience  of 
old  age ;  they  were  hoping  something  of  the  fete 
might  come  their  way.  Two  women,  in  one  of 
the  low  interiors,  were  more  philosophic  than 
their  neighbors ;  if  their  stiffened  knees  would  not 
carry  them  to  the  fete,  at  least  their  gnarled  old 
hands  could  hold  a  pack  of  cards.  They  were 
seated  close  to  the  open  casement,  facing  each 
other  across  a  small  round  table ;  along  the  win- 
dow-sill there  Avere  rows  of  flower-XDots ;  a  pewter 


A    STREET   IN    COCTANCES — EGLISE   SAINT- I'lEKKE. 


THREE  NORMANDY  INNS.  309 

tankard  was  set  between  them ;  and  out  of  the 
shadowy  interior  came  the  topaz  gleam  of  the 
Normandy  brasses,  the  hng-e  bed,  with  its  snowj" 
draperies,  the  great  chests,  and  the  flower}^  chintz- 
frill  defining  the  width  of  the  yawning  fireplace. 
The  two  old  faces,  with  the  strong  features,  deep 
wrinkles,  sunken  mouths,  and  bald  heads  tied  uj) 
in  dazzling  white  coifs,  were  in  full  relief  against 
the  dim  background.  They  were  as  motionless  as 
statues  ;  neither  looked  up  as  our  footfall  struck 
along  the  cobbles ;  it  was  an  exciting  moment  in 
the  game. 

Below  these  old  houses  stretched  the  public 
gardens.  Here  also  there  was  a  great  stillness. 
For  us  alone  the  rose  gardens  bloomed,  the  tropi- 
cal trees  were  shivering,  and  the  palms  were 
making  a  night  of  shade  for  wide  acres  of  turf. 
E-arely  does  a  city  boast  of  such  a  garden.  It  was 
no  surprise  to  learn,  later,  that  these  lovely  paths 
and  noble  terraces  had  been  the  slow  achievement 
of  a  lover  of  landscape  gardening,  one  who,  dy- 
ing, had  given  this,  his  master-piece,  to  his  native 
town. 

There  is  no  better  place  from  which  to  view  the 
beautiful  city.  From  the  horizontal  lines  of  the 
broad  terraces  flows  the  great  sweep  of  the  hill- 
side ;  it  takes  a  swift  precipitous  plunge,  and  rests 
below  in  wide  stretches  of  meadow.  The  garden 
itself  seemed,  by  virtue  of  this  encompassing  cir- 
cle of  green,  to  be  only  a  more  exquisitely  culti- 
vated portion  of  the  lovely  outlying  hills  and 
wooded  depths.  The  cows,  grazing  below  in  the 
valleys,  were  whisking  their  tails,  and  from  the 
farm-yards  came  the  crow  of  the  chanticleer. 


310  THREE  NORMANDY  INNS. 

One  turned  to  look  iTpward — to  follow  heaven- 
ward the  soaring'  glory  of  the  cathedral  towers. 
From  the  plane  of  the  streets  their  geometric  per- 
fection had  made  thei*"  lines  seem  cold.  Through 
this  aerial  perspective  the  eye  followed,  enrapt- 
ured, the  perfect  Gothic  of  the  sjiires  and  the 
lower  central  tower.  The  great  nave  roof  and 
the  choir  lifttnl  themselves  above  the  turrets 
and  the  tiled  house-tops  of  the  city,  as  g"ray 
mountains  of  stone  rise  above  the  huts  of  pyg- 
mies. Coutances  does  well  to  be  proud  of  its  ca- 
thedral. 

The  sound  of  a  footstep,  crunching  the  gravel 
of  the  garden-walk,  caused  us  to  turn.  It  was  to 
find,  face  to  face,  the  hero  of  the  night  before ;  the 
celebrated  Coutances  lawyer  was  also  taking  his 
constitutional.  But  not  alone,  some  friends  were 
with  him,  come  up  to  town  doubtless  for  the  fcfe 
or  the  trial.  He  was  showing  them  his  city.  He 
stretched  a  hand  forth,  with  the  same  magisterial 
g-esture  of  the  night  before,  to  point  out  the  glory 
of  the  prospect  lying-  below  the  terrace.  He 
faced  the  cathedral  towers,  explaining  the  points 
of  their  perfection.  And  then,  for  he  was  a  French- 
man, he  perceived  the  j^resence  of  two  ladies.  In 
an  instant  his  hat  was  raised,  and  as  quickly  his 
eyes  told  us  he  had  seen  us  before,  in  the  court- 
room. The  bow  was  the  lower  because  of  this  re- 
cognition, and  the  salute  was  accompanied  by  a 
g-rave  smile. 

Manners  in  the  provinces  are  still  good,  you 
perceive — if  only  jou  are  far  enough  away  from 
Paris. 


THREE  NORMANDY  INNS.  311 

Someone  else  also  bestowed  on  us  the  courtesy 
of  a  passing-  greeting.  It  was  a  cure  who  was 
saying"  his  Ave,  as  he  paced  slowly,  in  the  sun,  up 
and  down  the  yew  path.  He  was  old;  one  leg- 
was  already  tired  of  life — it  must  be  dragg-ed  pain- 
fully along",  when  one  walked  in  the  sun.  The  cure 
himself  was  not  in  the  least  tired  of  life.  His 
smile  was  as  warm  as  the  sun  as  he  lifted  his 
calotte. 

"  Surely,  mesdames,  you  will  not  miss  the  fete  ? 
It  must  be  forming  now." 

He  had  taken  an  old  man's,  and  a  priest's,  privi- 
lege. We  were  all  three  looking  down  into  the 
valley,  which  lay  below,  a  pool  of  freshness.  He 
had  spoken,  first  of  the  beauty  of  the  j)rospect, 
and  then  of  the  great  day.  To  be  young  and 
still  strong,  to  be  able  to  follow  the  procession 
from  street  to  street,  and  yet  to  be  lingering  here 
among  the  roses ! — this  passed  the  simple  cure's 
comprehension.  The  reproach  in  his  mild  old 
eyes  was  quickly  changed  to  approval,  however ; 
for  upon  the  announcement  that  the  procession 
was  already  in  motion  we  started,  bidding  him  a 
hurried  adieu. 

The  huge  cathedral  portals  yawned  at  the  top 
of  the  hill :  they  were  like  a  gaping  chasm.  The 
great  place  of  the  cathedral  square  was  half 
filled :  a  part  of  the  procession  had  passed  already 
beyond  the  gloom  of  the  vast  aisles  into  the  frank 
openness  of  daj^  Winding-  in  and  out  of  the 
white-hung  streets  a  long  line  of  figures  was 
marching :  part  of  the  line  had  reached  the  first 
reposoir,  and  gi-adually  the  swaying  of  the  heads 


312  THREE  NORMANDY  INNS. 

was  slackening-,  as,  by  twos  and  twos,  the  figures 
stopped. 

Still,  from  between  the  cathedral  doors  an  un- 
ending- multitude  of  people  kept  pouring-  forth 
upon  the  cathedral  square.  Now  it  was  an  inter- 
minable line  of  young-  girls,  first  communicants, 
in  their  white  veils  and  g-owns ;  against  the  grays 
and  browns  of  the  cathedi-al  fagade  this  mass 
of  snow  was  of  startling  purity  —  a  g-reat  white 
rose  of  light.  Closely  following  the  dazzling  line 
marched  a  grave  com^Dany  of  nuns ;  with  their 
black  robes  sweeping  the  flower-strewn  streets, 
the  pallor  of  their  faces,  and  the  white  wings  of 
their  huge  coifs,  they  might  have  been  so  many 
marble  statues  moving  with  slow,  automatic  step, 
repeating  in  life  the  statues  in  stone  above  their 
heads,  incarnations  of  meek  renunciation.  With 
the  free  and  joj^ous  step  of  a  vigorous  youth  not 
yet  tamed  to  comjilete  self-obliteration,  next  there 
stepped  forth  into  the  sun  a  group  of  seminarists. 
In  the  lace  and  scarlet  of  their  bright  robes  they 
were  like  unto  so  many  young  kings.  High  in  the 
summer  air  they  swung  their  golden  censers ;  from 
huge  baskets,  heajDed  with  flowers,  they  scattered 
flowers  as  they  swayed,  in  the  grace  of  their  youth, 
from  side  to  side,  with  priestly  rhythmic  motion. 

In  the  days  of  Greece,  under  the  Attic  tent  of 
sky,  it  was  Jove  that  was  thus  worshipped  ;  here 
in  Coutances,  under  the  paler,  less  ardent  blue 
of  France,  it  was  the  Christian  God  these  youths 
were  honoring.  So  men  have  continued  to  scat- 
ter flowers ;  to  swing  incense ;  to  bend  the  knee : 
surely  in  all  ages  the  long  homage  of  men,  like  the 


THREE  NORMANDY  INNS.  313 

procession  here  before  us,  has  been  but  this — the 
longing-  to  worship  the  Invisible,  and  to  make  the 
act  one  with  beauty. 

Is  it  Greek,  is  it  Christian,  this  festival  ?  If  it 
be  Catholic,  it  is  also  pagan.  It  is  as  composite  a 
union  of  religious  ceremonials  as  man  is  himself 
an  aggregate  of  lost  types,  for  there  is  a  subtle 
law  of  repetition  which  governs  both  men  and 
ceremonials. 

How  pagan  was  the  color !  how  Greek  the  sense 
of  beauty  that  lies  in  contrasts !  how  Jewish  the 
splendor  of  the  priestly  vestments  as  the  gold  and 
silver  tissues  gleamed  in  the  sun !  How  mediaeval 
this  survival  of  an  old  miracle  play  ! 

See  this  group  of  children,  half-frightened, 
half-i3roud,  wandering  from  side  to  side  as  chil- 
dren unused  to  walking  soberly  ever  march.  They 
were  following  the  leadership  of  a  huge  Suisse. 
This  latter  was  magnificently  apx)arelled.  He 
carried  a  great  mace,  and  this  he  swung  high  in 
the  air.  The  children,  little  John  the  BaiDtist, 
Christ,  Mary  the  Mother,  and  Magdalen,  were 
magnetized  by  his  mighty  skill.  They  were 
looking  at  the  golden  stick ;  they  were  thinking 
only  of  how  high  he,  this  splendid  giant  who  ter- 
rified them  so,  would  throw  it  the  next  time,  and 
if  he  would  always  surely  catch  it.  The  small 
Virgin,  in  her  long  brown  robes,  tripped  as  she 
walked.  The  cherubic  John  the  Baptist,  with 
only  his  sheepskin  and  his  cross,  shivered  as  he 
stumbled  after  her. 

"  At  least  thej"  might  have  covered  his  arms,  le 
2muvre2)etit,"  one  stout  peasant  among  the  bystand- 


314  THREE  NORMANDY  INNS. 

ers  was  Christian  enon2:li  to  mutter,  "  Poor  little 
John  ! "  Even  in  summer  the  sun  is  none  too  hot 
on  this  hill-top  -,  and  a  sheepskin  is  a  garment  one 
must  be  used  to,  it  apf)ears.  Christ,  himself,  was 
no  better  oft'.  He  was  wearing-  his  croAvn  of  thorns, 
but  he  had  only  his  night-dress,  bound  with  a 
girdle,  to  keep  his  naked  little  bod}'^  warm.  An 
angel,  in  gossamer  wings  and  a  huge  rose-wreath, 
being  of  the  other  sex,  had  her  innate  woman's 
love  of  finery  to  make  her  oblivious  to  the  light 
sting  of  the  Avind,  as  it  joassed  through  her  draper- 
ies. As  this  group  in  the  i^rocession  moved 
slowly  along,  the  city  took  on  a  curiously  antique 
aspect.  In  every  lattice  window  a  head  was 
framed.  The  lines  of  the  townspeople  pressed 
closer  and  closer;  they  made  a  serried  mass  of 
blouses  and  caps,  of  shiny  coats  and  bared  heads. 
The  very  houses  seemed  to  recognize  that  a  part 
of  their  own  youth  was  jiassing  them  by ;  these 
were  the  figures  they  had  looked  out  upon,  time 
after  time,  in  the  old  fourteenth  and  fifteenth  cen- 
tury daj's,  when  the  great  miracle  plays  drew  the 
country  around,  for  miles  and  miles,  to  this  Cou- 
tances  square. 

Across  the  square,  in  the  long  gray  distance  of 
the  streets,  the  archbishop's  canopy  was  motion- 
less. A  sweet  groaning  murmur  rij^pled  from  lip 
to  lip. 

Then  a  swift  and  mighty  rustling  filled  the  air, 
for  the  bones  of  thousands  of  knees  were  striking 
the  stones  of  the  street ; — even  heretic  knees  were 
bent  when  the  Host  was  lifted.  It  was  the  moment 
of  silent  prayer.     It  was  also,  perhaps,  the  most 


THREE  NORMANDY  INNS.  315 

beautiful,  it  was  assuredly  the  most  consum- 
mately picturesque  moment  of  the  da3^  The  bent 
heads :  the  long"  vistas  of  kneeling-  figures ;  the 
lovely  contrasts  of  the  flowing-  draperies ;  the 
trailing  sj^lendor  of  the  priests'  robes  dying  into 
the  black  note  made  by  the  nuns'  sombre  skirts ; 
the  gossamer  brilliance  of  the  hundreds  of  white 
veils,  through  which  the  3^oung  rapture  of  relig- 
ious awe  on  lips  and  brow  made  even  common- 
place features  beautiful ;  the  choristers'  scarlet 
petticoats ;  the  culminating  note  of  splendor,  the 
Archbishop,  throned  like  some  antique  scriptural 
king-  under  the  feathers  and  velvets  of  his  crimson 
canopy ;  then  the  long  lines  of  the  townspeople  with 
the  groujis  of  peasants  beside  them,  whose  well- 
sunned  skins  made  even  their  comi:)lexion  seem 
pale  by  the  side  of  cheeks  that  brought  the  burn 
of  noon-suns  in  the  valleys  to  mind ;  and  behind 
this  wall  of  kneeling  figures,  those  other  walls, 
the  long  white-hung  house  facades,  with  their 
pendent  sprig-s  and  wreaths  and  garlands  above 
which  hung  the  frieze  of  human  heads  beneath 
the  carved  cornices;  surely  this  was  indeed  the 
culminating-  moment,  both  in  point  of  beauty  and 
in  impressiveness,  of  the  great  day's  festival. 

Thus  was  repcsoir  after  reposoir  visited.  Again 
and  again  the  multitude  was  on  its  knees.  Again 
and  again  the  Host  was  lifted.  And  still  we 
followed.  Sometimes  all  the  line  was  in  full 
light,  a  long  perspective  of  color  and  of  pris- 
matic radiance.  And  then  the  line  would  be  lost ; 
some  part  of  it  was  still  in  a  side-street ;  and 
the   rest  were   singing   along  the   edges  of  the 


316  THREE  NORMANDY  INNS. 

city's  ramparts,  under  the  great  branches  of  the 
trees.  Here,  in  the  g"ray  of  the  narrow  streets, 
the  choristers'  gowns  were  startling  in  their  rich- 
ness. Yonder,  in  full  sunlight,  the  brightness  on 
the  maidens'  robes  made  the  shadows  in  their 
white  skirts  as  blue  as  light  caught  in  a  grotto's 
depth. 

Still  ih.ej  sang.  In  the  dim  streets  or  under 
the  trees,  where  the  gay  banners  were  still  flut- 
tering, and  the  white  veils,  like  airy  sails,  were 
bulging  in  the  wind,  the  hymn  went  on.  It  w^as 
thin  and  pathetically  weak  in  the  mouths  of  the 
babes  that  walked.  It  was  clear,  as  fresh  and  pure 
as  a  brooklet's  ripple,  from  the  mouths  of  the 
young  communicants.  It  was  of  firm  contralto 
strength  from  the  throats  of  the  grave  nuns.  The 
notes  gained  and  gained  in  richness ;  the  hymn 
was  almost  a  chant  with  the  priests ;  and  in  the 
mouths  of  the  people  it  was  as  a  ringing  chorus. 
Together  with  the  swelling  music  swung  the  in- 
cense into  high  air;  and  to  the  Host  the  rose- 
leaves  were  flung. 

Still  we  followed.  Still  the  long  line  moved 
on  from  altar  to  altar. 

Then,  when  the  noon  was  long  jDast,  wearily  we 
climbed  upward  to  our  inn. 

In  the  high  streets  there  was  much  going  to 
and  fro.  The  shop-keepers  already  were  taking 
down  their  linen.  Pouffe !  Pouffe !  there  was 
much  blowing  through  mouths  and  a  great  stand- 
ing on  tiptoes  to  reach  the  tall  tapers  on  the 
reposoirs. 

Coutances  was  pious.     Coutances  was  proud  of 


THREE  NORMANDY  INNS.  317 

its  fete.  But  Coutances  was  also  a  thrifty  city. 
Once  the  cortege  had  passed,  it  was  high  time  to 
snuff  out  the  tajjers.  Who  could  stand  by  and  see 
good  candles  blowing  uselessly  in  the  wind,  and 
one's  money  going  along  with  the  dripping ! 


CHAPTER  XX^TEI. 

BY     LAND    TO    MONT    ST.    MICHEL. 

Two  hours  later  the  usual 
collection  of  forces  was  as- 
sembled in  our  inn  court- 
yard ;  for  a  question  of  im- 
portance was  to  be  decided. 
Madame  was  there — chief 
of  the  council :  her  hus- 
band was  also  present,  be- 
cause he  misfht  be  useful  in  case  any  dispute 
as  to  madame's  word  came  up ;  Aug"uste,  the 
one  inn  waiter,  was  an  important  fisfure  of  the 
group ;  for  he,  of  them  all,  was  the  really  travelled 
one ;  he  had  seen  the  world — he  was  to  be  counted 
on  as  to  distances  and  routes ;  and  above,  from  the 
upper  windows,  the  two  ladies  of  the  bed-chamber 
looked  down,  to  act  as  chorus  to  the  brisk  dia- 
logue going"  on  between  madame  and  the  owner 
of  a  certain  victoria  for  which  we  were  in  treaty. 

"  Ces  dames"  madame  said,  with  a  shrug  which 
was  meant  for  the  coachman,  and  a  smile  which 
was  her  gift  to  us — "  these  ladies  wish  to  go  to 
Mont  St.  Michel,  to  drive  there.  Have  you  your 
little  victoria  and  Poulette  ?  " 

Now,  by  the  shrug  madame  had  conveyed  to  the 
man  and  the  assembled  household  generally,  her 


THREE  NORMANDY  INNS.  319 

own  great  scorn  of  ns,  and  of  our  plans.  What  a 
whim  this,  of  driving-,  forsooth,  to  the  Mont ! 
Dieu  salt — French  people  were  not  given  to  any 
such  follies  ;  they  were  serions-minded,  always,  in 
matters  of  travel.  To  travel  at  all,  was  no  light 
thing;  one  made  one's  will  and  took  an  honest 
and  tearful  farewell  of  one's  family,  when  one 
went  on  a  journey.  But  these  English,  these 
Americans,  there's  no  foretelling  to  what  point 
their  folly  will  make  them  tempt  fate !  However, 
madame  was  one  who  knew  on  which  side  her 
bread  was  buttered,  if  ever  a  woman  did.  and  the 
continuance  of  these  mad  follies  helped  to  butter 
her  own  French  roll.  And  so  her  shrug  and  Avink 
conveyed  to  the  tall  Norman  just  how  much  these 
particular  lunatics  before  them  would  be  willing 
to  pay  for  this  their  whim. 

"  Have  you  Poulette  ? " 

"  Yes — yes — Poulette  is  at  home.  I  have  made 
her  repose  herself  all  day — hearing  these  ladies 
had  spoken  of  driving  to  the  Mont " 

Chorus  from  the  upper  window-sills.  "  The 
poor  beast !  it  is  joUment  longiie — la  distance." 

"  As  these  ladies  observe,"  continued  the  owner 
of  the  doomed  animal,  not  raising  his  head,  but 
quickly  acting  on  the  hint,  "it  is  long,  the  dis- 
tance— one  does  not  go  for  nothing."  And  though 
the  man  kept  his  mouth  from  betraying'  him,  his 
keen  eyes  glittered  with  avarice. 

"  And  then — ces  dames  must  descend  at  Genets, 
to  cross  the  greve,  tu  sais,"  interpolated  the  waiter, 
excitedly  changing  his  napkin,  his  wand  of  office, 
from  one   armpit  to  the  other.     The   thought  of 


320  THREE  NORMANDY  INNS. 

travel  stirred  his  blood.  It  was  fine — to  start  off 
thus,  without  haviug-  to  make  the  necessary  ar- 
rang-ements  for  a  winter's  service  or  a  summer's 
season.  And  to  drive,  that  would  be  new — yes 
that  would  be  a  chang-e  indeed  from  the  stuffy 
third-class  compartments.  For  Auguste,  you  see, 
approved  of  us  and  of  the  foolishness  of  our  plans. 
His  sympathy  being*  gratis,  was  allied  to  the  pro- 
tective instinct — he  would  see  the  cheating  was  at 
least  as  honestly  done  as  was  compatible  with 
French  methods. 

"  Another  carriage — and  why  ?  "  we  meekly  quer- 
ied, warned  by  this  friendly  hint.  A  chorus  now 
arose  from  the  entire  audience. 

"  JIais,  madame  ! — it  is  as  much  as  five  or  six 
kilos  over  the  sands  to  the  Mont  from  Genets !  " 
was  cried  out  in  a  tone  of  universal  reproach. 

"Through  rivers,  madame,  through  rivers  as 
high  as  that !  "  and  Auguste,  striking  in  after  the 
chorus,  measured  himself  off  at  the  breast. 

"  Yes — the  water  comes  to  there,  on  the  horse," 
added  the  driver,  sweeping"  an  imaginary  horse's 
head,  with  a  fine  gesture,  in  the  air. 

"  Dame,  that  must  be  fine  to  see,"  cried  down 
Leontine  and  Marie,  gasping-  with  little  sighs  of 
envy. 

"  And  so  it  is !  "  cried  back  Auguste,  nodding 
upward  with  dramatic  gesture.  "  One  can  get  as 
wet  as  a  duck — splashing  through  those  rivers. 
Dieu  !  que  c'est  heau  !  "  And  he  clasped  his  hands 
as  his  eye,  rolling  heavenward,  caught  the  blue 
and  the  velvet  of  the  four  feminine  orbs  on  its  up- 
ward way.     Seeing  which  ecstasy,  the  courtyard 


THREE  NORMANDY  INNS.  321 

visibly  relented ;  Aug-uste's  rapture  and  liis  envy 
had  worked  the  common  human  miracle  of  turning 
contemj)t  for  a  folly  into  belief  in  it. 

This  quick  firing-  of  French  jieople  to  a  jileasur- 
able  elation  in  others'  adventure  is,  I  think  we 
must  all  ag-ree,  one  of  the  great  charms  of  this  ex- 
citable race :  anything-  will  serve  as  a  pretext  for 
setting-  this  sympathetic  vibration  in  motion. 
What  they  all  crave  as  a  nation  is  a  daily,  hourly 
diet  of  the  unusual,  the  unforeseen. 

It  is  this  passion  for  incident  which  makes  a 
Frenchman's  life  not  unlike  his  soups,  since  in  the 
case  of  both,  how  often  does  he  make  something- 
out  of  nothing  ! 

An  hour  later  we  were  picking  our  way  thi'ough 
the  city's  streets.  Sweeter  than  the  crushed  flow- 
ers was  the  free  air  of  the  valley. 

There  is  no  way  of  looking  back  so  agreeable,  on 
the  whole,  I  think,  as  to  look  back  upon  a  city. 

From  the  near  distance  of  the  first  turn  in  the 
road,  Coutances  and  its  cathedral  were  at  their 
very  best.  The  hill  on  which  both  stood  was  only 
one  of  the  many  hills  we  now  saw  g-rowing-  out  of 
the  green  valley ;  among  the  dozen  hill-tops,  this 
one  we  were  leaving  was  only  more  crowded  than 
the  others,  and  more  g-loriously  crowned.  In  giant 
height  uprose,  above  the  city's  roofs  and  the  lesser 
towers,  the  spires  and  the  lovely  lantern  tower. 
This  vast  mass  of  stone,  pricked  into  lacy  aper- 
tures and  with  its  mighty  lines  of  grace— for  how 
many  a  long  century  has  it  been  in  the  eye  of  the 
valley  ?  Tancrede  de  Hauteville  saw  it  before 
"William  was  born — before  he,  the  Conqueror,  rode 


322  THREE  NORMANDY  INNS. 

in  his  turn  tliroug-li  the  green  lanes  to  consecrate 
the  church  to  One  greater  than  he.  From  Tancrede 
to  Boileau,  what  a  succession  of  bishops,  each  in 
their  turn,  have  had  their  eye  on  the  great  cathe- 
dral. There  was  a  sort  of  viking  bishop,  one 
Geoffrey  de  Montbray,  of  the  Conqueror's  day,  who, 
having  a  greater  taste  for  men's  blood  than  their 
puritication,  found  Coutances  a  dull  city :  there 
was  more  war  of  the  kind  his  stout  arm  rejoiced 
in  across  the  Channel ;  and  so  he  travelled  a  bit 
to  do  a  little  pleasant  killing.  From  Geoffrey  to 
Boileau  and  the  latter's  lacy  ruffles — how  many  a 
rude  Norman  epic  was  acted  out,  here  in  the  val- 
ley, beneath  the  soaring  spires,  before  the  Homeric 
combat  was  turned  into  the  verse  of  a  chanson  de 
geste,  a  Roman  de  Rou,  or  a  Lufrin  ! 

As  Poulette  rolled  the  wheels  along,  instead  of 
visored  bishop,  or  mail  rustling  on  strong  breasts, 
there  was  the  oi^en  face  of  the  landscape,  and  the 
tremble  of  the  grasses  beneath  the  touch  of  the 
wind.  Coming  down  the  hill  was  a  very  j)eaceable 
company ;  doubtless,  between  wars  in  those  hot 
fighting  centuries,  just  such  travellers  went  up  and 
down'the  hill-road  as  unconcernedly  as  did  these 
peasants.  There  was  quite  a  variety  among  the 
present  groups :  some  were  strictly  family  parties ; 
these  talked  little,  giving  their  mind  to  stiff  walk- 
ing— the  smell  of  the  soup  in  the  farmj^ard  kitchen 
was  in  their  nostrils.  The  women's  ages  M-ere 
more  legibly  read  in  their  caps  than  in  their  faces — 
the  older  the  women  the  prettier  the  caps.  Among 
these  groups,  queens  of  the  party,  were  some  first 
communicants.       Their  white  kid  slippers  were 


THREE  NORMANDY  INNS.  323 

brown  now,  from  the  long  walk  in  the  city  streets 
and  the  dust  of  the  highway.  They  held  their 
veils  with  a  maiden's  awkwardness ;  with  bent 
heads  they  leaned  gravely  on  their  fathers'  arms. 
In  this,  their  first  sujDreme  experience  of  self- 
consciousness,  they  had  the  self-absorption  of 
young  brides.  The  trail  of  their  muslin  gowns 
and  the  light  cloud  of  their  veils  made  dazzling 
spots  of  brightness  in  the  delicate  frame  of  the 
June  landscape.  Each  of  these  white-clad  figures 
was  followed  by  a  long  train  of  friends  and  rela- 
tives. 

"  C'est  joli  a  i;oir— it's  a  pretty  sight,  hein,  my  la- 
dies ? — these  young  girls  are  beautiful  like  that !  " 
Our  coachman  took  his  eye  off  Poulette  to  turn  in 
his  seat,  looking  backward  at  the  groups  as  they 
followed  in  our  wake.  "  Ah — it  was  hard  to  leave 
my  own — I  had  two  like  that,  myself,  in  the  pro- 
cession to-day."  And  the  full  Norman  eye  filled 
with  a  sudden  moisture.  This  was  a  more  attrac- 
tive glitter  than  the  avarice  of  a  moment  be- 
fore. 

"  You  see,  mesdames,"  he  went  on,  as  if  wishing 
to  excuse  the  moistened  eyelids,  "  you  see — it's  a 
great  day  in  the  family  when  our  children  take 
their  first  communion.  It  is  the  day  the  child  dies 
and  the  man,  the  woman  is  born.  When  our  chil- 
dren kneel  at  our  feet,  before  the  priest,  before 
their  comrades,  and  beg  us  to  forgive  them  all  the 
sin  they  have  done  since  they  were  born — it  is  too 
much — the  heart  grows  so  big  it  is  near  to  burst- 
ing.    Ah — it  is  then  we  all  weep  !  " 

Charm  settled  herself  in  her  seat  with  a  satis- 


324  THREE  NORMANDY  INNS. 

fiecl  smile.  "  We  are  iu  hick — an  emotional  coach- 
man who  weeps  and  talks !  The  five  hours  will 
fly,"  she  murmured.  Then  aloud,  to  Jacques— as 
we  learned  the  now  snifflinf?-  father  was  called — she 
presently  asked,  with  the  oil  of  encourag-ement  in 
her  tone  : 

"  You  say  your  two  were  in  the  procession  ?  " 

"  Two  !  there  were  five  in  all.  Even  the  babies 
walked.  Did  you  see  Jesu  and  the  Mag-dalen? 
They  were  mine — C'etait  a  mot,  ga  !  For  the  priests 
will  have  them — as  many  as  they  can  get." 

"  They  are  right.  If  the  children  didn't  walk, 
how  could  the  procession  be  so  fine  ?  " 

"Fine  —  heau  —  c,a?"  And  there  was  a  deep 
scorn  in  Jacques's  voice.  "  You  should  liaA'e  seen 
the  fete  twenty  years  ago !  Now,  its  glory  is  as 
nothing.  It's  the  i^riests  themselves  who  are  to 
blame.  They've  spoiled  it  all.  Years  ago,  the 
whole  town  walked.  Dieu — what  a  spectacle  !  The 
mayor,  the  mairie,  all  the  firemen,  municipal  ofli- 
cers — yes,  even  the  soldiers  walked.  And  as  for 
the  singing — dame,  all  the  young  men  were  chor- 
isters then— we  were  trained  for  months.  When  we 
walked  and  sang  in  the  open  streets  the  singing 
filled  all  the  to^vn.     It  was  like  a  great  thunder." 

"  And  the  change^ why  has  it  come  ?  "  persisted 
Charm. 

"  Oh,"  Jacques  replied,  caressing  Poulette's 
haunches  with  his  whip-lash.  "It's  the  priests; 
they  were  too  grasping.  They  are  avaricious, 
that's  what  they  are.  They  want  everything  for 
themselves.  And  a.  fete — c.a  coute,  vous  savez.  Be- 
sides, the  spirit  of  the  times  has  changed.     Peoj)le 


THREE  NORMANDY  INNS.  325 

aren't  so  devout  now.     Lihres  j^enseurs — that's  tlie 
fashion  now.     Hold,  Poulette  !  " 

Poulette  responded.  She  dashed  into  the  valley, 
below  US  now,  as  if  this  rolling-  along-  of  a  heavy- 
victoria,  a  lot  of  lug'gag-e,  and  three  travellers, 
was  an  agreeable  episode  in  her  career  of  toil. 
But  on  the  mind  of  her  owner,  the  spectre  of  the 
free-thinkers  was  still  hovering  like  an  evil  spirit. 
During-  the  next  hour  he  g-ave  us  a  long-  and  exhaust- 
ive exposition  of  the  changes  wrought  by  ces  mes- 
sieurs qui  nienf  le  hon  Dieu.  Among  their  crimes  was 
to  be  numbered  that  of  having-  disintegrated  the 
morale  of  the  peasantry.  They — the  peasants — no 
longer  believed  in  miracles,  and  as  for  sorcery,  for 
the  good  old  superstitions,  bah  !  they  were  looked 
upon  as  old  wives'  tales.  Even  here,  in  the  heart 
of  this  rural  countrj^,  you  would  have  to  walk  far 
before  you  could  find  inie  vraie  sorciere,  one  who. 
by  looking-  into  a  g-lass  of  water,  for  instance,  could 
read  the  future  as  in  a  book,  or  one  who,  if  your  cow 
dried  up,  could  name  the  evil  spirit,  the  demon, 
who,  among  the  peasants  was  exercising-  the  curse. 
All  this  science  was  lost.  A  peasant  would  now 
be  ashamed  to  bring  his  cow  to  a  fortune-teller ; 
all  the  village  would  laugh.  Even  the  shei^herds 
had  lost  the  power  of  communing  with  the  planets 
at  night ;  and  all  the  valley  read  the  Petit  Journal 
instead  of  consulting  the  vieilles  mh'es.  One  must 
go  as  far  as  Brittanj^  to  see  a  real  peasant  with  the 
superstitions  of  a  peasant.  As  for  Normandy,  it 
went  in  step  with  the  rest  of  the  world,  que  diahle  ! 
And  again  the  whip  lash  descended.  Poulette 
must  suffer  for  Jacques's  disgust. 


326  THREE  NORMANDY  INNS. 

If  the  Normau  peasant  was  a  modern,  his  coun- 
try, at  least,  had  retained  the  charm  of  its  ancient 
beauty.  The  road  was  as  Norman  a  higiiwaj^  as 
one  could  wish  to  see.  It  had  the  most  capricious 
of  natures,  turning-  and  perversely  twisting  among- 
the  farms  and  uplands.  The  land  was  ribboned 
with  growing  grain,  and  the  June  g-rass  was  being 
cut.  The  farms  stood  close  npon  the  roadway,  as 
if  longing  for  its  companionshi]) ;  and  then,  having 
done  so  much  toward  the  establishment  of  neigh- 
borly gossip,  promptly  turned  their  backs  upon 
it — true  Normaiis,  all  of  them,  with  this  their  ap- 
pearance of  frankness  and  their  real  reserves  of 
secrecy. 

For  a  last  time  we  caught  a  distant  glimpse  of 
the  great  cathedral.  As  we  looked  back  across 
the  bright-roofed  villages,  we  saw  the  stately  pile, 
gray,  glorious,  superb,  dominating  the  scene,  the 
hills,  river,  and  fields,  as  in  the  old  days  the  great 
city  walls  and  the  cathedral  towers  had  dominated 
all  the  human  life  that  played  helplessly  about 
them. 

We  were  out  once  more  among  the  green  and 
yellow  broadlands ;  between  our  carriage  -  wheels 
and  the  horizon  there  was  now  spread  a  wide  am- 
phitheatre of  wooded  hills.  The  windings  of  the 
poplar-lined  road  serpentined  in  sinuous  grace  in 
and  out  of  forests,  meadows,  hills,  and  islands. 
The  afternoon  lights  were  deepening ;  the  shad- 
ows on  the  grain-fields  cast  by  the  oaks  and  beeches 
were  a  part  of  our  comj^any.  The  blue  bloom  of 
the  distant  hills  was  strengthening  into  purple. 
As  the  light  was  intensifying  in  color,  the  human 


THREE  NORMANDY  INNS.  327 

life  in  the  fields  was  relaxing-  its  tension ;  the  bent 
backs  were  straightening",  the  ploughmen  were 
whipping  their  steeds  toward  the  open  road ;  for 
although  it  was  Sunday,  and  a/efe  day,  the  farmer 
must  work.  The  women  were  gathering  up  some 
of  the  grasses,  tying  them  into  bundles,  and  toss- 
ing them  on  their  heads  as  they  moved  slowly 
across  the  blackening  earth. 

One  field  near  us  was  peopled  with  a  group  of 
girls  resting  on  their  scythes.  One  or  two  among 
them  were  mopping  their  faces  with  their  coarse 
blue  aprons;  the  faces  of  all  were  aflame  with 
the  red  of  rude  health.  As  we  came  upon  them, 
some  had  flung  away  their  scythes,  the  tallest 
among  the  group  grasping  a  near  companion, 
playfully,  in  the  pose  of  a  wrestler.  In  an  instant 
the  company  was  turned  into  a  group  of  wrestlers. 
There  was  a  great  shout  of  laughter,  as  maiden  af- 
ter maiden  was  tumbled  over  on  her  back  or  face 
amid  the  grasses.  Sabots,  short  skirts,  kerchiefs, 
scarlet  arms  rose  and  fell  to  earth  in  the  mad 
whirl  of  their  gayety. 

"  Stop,  Jacques,  I  must  see  the  end,"  cried 
Charm.     "  Will  the}^  fight  or  dance,  I  wonder  !  " 

"  Oh,  it  is  a  pure  Georgic — they'll  dance." 
They  were  dancing  already.  The  line,  with  dis- 
hevelled hair,  aprons  and  kerchiefs  askew,  had 
formed  into  the  square  of  a  quadrille.  A  rude 
measure  was  tripped;  a  snatch  of  song,  shouted 
amid  the  laughter,  gave  rhythm  to  the  measure, 
and  then  the  whole  band,  singing  in  chorus, 
linked  arms  and  swept  with  a  furious  dash  be- 
neath the  thatched  roof  of  a  low  farm-house. 


328  THREE  NORMANDY  INNS. 

"As  you  see,  my  ladies,  sometimes  the  fields 
are  gay  —  even  now,"  was  Jacques's  comment. 
"  But  they  should  be  getting-  their  grasses  in — for 
it'll  rain  before  night.  It's  time  to  sing  when  the 
scythe  sleeps — as  we  say  here." 

To  our  eyes  there  were  no  signs  of  rain.  The 
clouds  rolling  in  the  blue  sea  above  us  were  only 
gloriously  lighted.  But  the  birds  and  the  peas- 
ants knew  their  sky ;  there  was  a  great  fluttering 
of  wings  among  the  branches ;  and  the  peasants, 
as  we  rattled  in  and  out  of  the  hamlets,  were  pull- 
ing the  reposoirs  to  pieces  in  the  haste  that  j)re- 
dicts  bad  weather.  They  had  been  "  celebrating" 
all  along  the  road;  and  besides  the  piety,  the 
Norman  thrift  was  abroad  upon  the  highway, 
AYomen  were  tearing  sheets  off  the  house  facades ; 
the  lads  and  girls  were  bearing  crosses,  china 
vases,  and  highly-colored  Virgins  from  the  wood- 
en altars  into  the  low  houses. 

Presently  the  great  droits  fell ;  they  beat  upon 
the  smooth  roadway  like  so  many  hard  bits  of 
coin.  In  less  than  two  ticks  of  the  clock,  the 
world  was  a  wet  world ;  there  were  masses  of  soft 
gray  clouds  that  were  like  so  much  cotton,  drip- 
ping with  moisture.  The  earth  was  as  drenched 
as  if,  half  an  hour  ago,  it  had  not  been  a  jeAvel 
gleaming  in  the  sun ;  and  the  very  farm-houses 
had  quickly  assumed  an  air  of  having  been  caught 
out  in  the  rain  without  an  umbrella.  The  farm 
gardens  alone  seemed  to  rejoice  in  the  suddenness 
of  the  shower.  Flowers  have  a  way  of  shining, 
when  it  rains,  that  proves  flower-petals  have  a 
woman's  love  of  solitaires. 


THREE  NORMANDY  INNS.  329 

There  were  other  dashes  of  color  that  made  the 
gray  landscape  astonishingly  brilliant.  Some  of 
the  peasants  on  their  way  to  the  Yillage  fetes  were 
also  caught  in  the  i^assing  shower.  They  had 
opened  their  wide  blue  and  purple  umbrellas ; 
these  latter  made  huge  disks  of  color  reflected  in 
the  glass  of  the  wet  macadam.  The  women  had 
turned  their  black  alpaca  and  cashmere  skirts  in- 
side out,  tucking  the  edges  about  their  stout 
hii3S;  beneath  the  wide  vivid  circles  of  the  drip- 
ping umbrellas  these  brilliantly  colored  under- 
petticoats  showed  a  liberal  revelation  of  scarlet 
hose  and  thick  ankles  sunk  in  the  freshly  polished 
black  sabots.  The  men's  cobalt-blue  blouses  and 
their  peaked  felt  hats  sj)otted  the  landscape  wdth 
contrasting  notes  and  outlines. 

After  the  last  peaked  hat  had  disappeared  into 
the  farm  enclosures,  we  and  the  wet  landscape  had 
the  rain  to  ourselves.  The  trees  now  were  spec- 
tral shapes :  they  could  not  be  relied  on  as  com- 
panions. Even  the  gardens  and  grain  lands  were 
mysteriously  veiled,  so  close  rolled  the  mists  to 
our  carriage- wheels.  Beyond,  at  the  farthest  end 
of  the  road,  these  mists  had  formed  themselves 
info  a  solid,  compact  mass. 

The  clouds  out  yonder,  far  ahead,  seemed  to  be 
enwrapping  some  part  of  earth  that  had  lanced  it- 
self into  the  sky. 

After  a  little  the  eyes  unconsciously  watched 
those  distant  woolly  masses.  There  was  a  some- 
thing beyond,  faint,  vague,  impalpable  as  yet, 
which  the  rolling  mists  begirt  as  sometimes  they 
cincture  an  Alpine  needle.     Even  as  the  thought 


330  THREE  NOmiANDT  INNS. 

came,  a  sudden  liftiii"-  of  the  ^vay  mass  showed 
the  point  of  a  high  uplifted  j^innacle.  The  point 
thereof  pricked  the  sky.  Then  the  wind,  like  a 
strong  hand,  swept  the  clouds  into  a  mantle,  and 
we  saw  the  strange  spectacle  no  more. 

For  several  miles  our  way  led  us  through  a 
dim,  phantasmal  landscape.  All  the  outlines  were 
blurred.  Even  the  rain  was  a  veil ;  it  fell  between 
us  and  the  nearest  hedgerows  as  if  it  had  been  a 
curtain.  The  jingling  of  Poulette's  bell-collar  and 
the  gurgle  of  the  w'ater  rushing  in  the  gulleys — 
these  were  the  only  sounds  that  fell  upon  the  ear. 

Still  the  clouds  about  that  distant  mass  curled 
and  rolled  ;  they  were  now  breaking,  now  re-form- 
ing— as  if  some  strange  and  wondrous  thing  were 
hanging  there — between  heaven  and  earth. 

It  was  still  far  out,  the  mass ;  even  the  lower 
mists  were  not  resting  on  any  plain  of  earth.  They 
also  were  moved  by  something  that  moved  beneath 
them,  as  a  thick  cloak  takes  the  shape  and  mo- 
tion of  the  body  it  covers.  Still  we  advanced, 
and  still  the  great  mountain  of  cloud  grew  and 
grew.  And  then  there  came  a  little  lisping,  hiss- 
ing sound.  It  was  the  kiss  of  the  sea  as  it  met 
some  unseen  shore.  And  on  our  cheeks  the  sea- 
wind  blew,  soft  and  salty  to  the  lips. 

The  mass  was  taking  shape  and  outline.  The 
mists  rolled  along  some  Avide,  broad  base  that 
rested  beneath  the  sea,  and  skyward  they  clasped 
the  apexal  point  of  a  pyramid. 

This  pyramid  in  the  sky  was  Mont  St.  Michel. 

With  its  feet  in  the  sea,  and  its  head  vanishing 
into  infinit}' — here,  at  last,  was  this  rock  of  rocks. 


THREE  NORMANDY  INNS.  331 

caught,  phantom-like,  up  iuto  the  veiy  heavens 
above. 

It  loomed  out  of  the  spectral  landscape — itself 
the  superlative  spectre ;  it  took  its  flight  upward 
as  might  some  genius  of  beauty  enrobed  in  a 
shroud  of  mystery. 

Such  has  it  been  to  generations  of  men.  Beau- 
tiful, remote,  mysterious  !  With  its  altars  and  its 
shrines,  its  miracle  of  stone  carved  by  man  on 
those  other  stones  he"\^Ti  by  the  wind  and  the  tem- 
pest, Mont  St.  Michel  has  ever  been  far  more  a 
part  of  heaven  than  a  thing  of  earth. 

Then,  for  us,  the  clouds  suddenly  lifted,  as,  for 
modern  generations  of  men,  the  mists  of  super- 
stition have  also  rolled  themselves  away. 


MONT  ST.  MICHEL: 

AN   INN   ON  A   ROCK. 


CHAPTER  XXIX. 

BY   SEA  TO   THE   POULAKD   INN, 

We  were  being"  tossed  in 
the  air  like  so  many  balls. 
A  Normandy  char-d-hanc 
was  proving-  itself  no  re- 
specter of  nice  distinc- 
tions in  conditions  in  life. 
It  phlipped,  dashed,  and 
rolled  us  about  with  no 
more  concern  than  if  it 
were  taking  us  to  market 
to  be  sold  by  the  pound. 
For  we  were  on  the 
greve.  The  promised 
rivers  were  before  us. 
■  •  So  was  the  Mont,  spec- 

tral no  longer,  but  nearing  with  every  plunge 
forward  of  our  sturdy  young-  Percheron.  Loco- 
motion through  any  new  or  untried  medium  is 
certain  to  bring-  with  the  experiment  a  dash  of 
elation.  Now,  driving-  through  water  appears  to 
be  no  long-er  the  fashion  in  our  fastidious  cen- 
tury ;  someone  might  g-et  a  wetting-,  possibly,  has 
been  the  conclusion  of  the  prudent.  And  thus  a 
very  innocent  and  exciting  bit  of  fun  has  been 


336  THREE  XOEMANDY  INNS. 

gradually  relegated  among  the  lost  arts  of  j^leas- 
ure. 

We  were  taking  water  as  we  had  never  taken 
it  before,  and  liking  the  method.  We  were  as 
wet  as  ducks,  but  what  cared  we  ?  We  were  be- 
ing deluged  with  spray ;  the  spume  of  the  sea 
was  spurting  in  our  faces  with  the  force  of  a 
strong  wet  breeze,  and  still  we  liked  it.  Besides, 
driving  thus  into  the  white  foam  of  the  waters, 
over  the  sand  ridges,  across  the  do^\Tis,  into  the 
wide  plains  of  wet  mud,  this  was  the  old  classical 
way  of  going  up  to  the  Mont.  Surely,  what  had 
been  found  good  enough  as  a  i^athway  for  kings 
and  saints  and  pilgrims  should  be  good  enough 
for  two  lovers  of  old-time  methods.  The  dike 
yonder  was  built  for  those  who  believe  in  the 
devil  of  haste,  and  for  those  who  also  serve  him 
faithfully. 

Someone  else  besides  ourselves  was  enjoj'ing 
our  drive  through  the  waves.  Our  gay  young 
Normandy  driver  seemed  to  find  an  exquisite 
relish  in  the  spectacle  of  our  wet  faces  and  un- 
stable figures.  He  could  not  keep  his  ej^es  off  us ; 
they  fairly  glistened  with  the  dew  of  his  enjoy- 
ment. Two  ladies  pitched  and  rolled  about,  ex- 
actly as  if  they  were  peasants,  and  laughing  as  if 
they  were  children — this  was  a  spectacle  and  a 
keen  appreciation  of  a  joke  that  brought  joy  to  a 
rustic  blouse. 

"  Ah— ah  !  mesdames !  "  he  cried,  exultingly,  be- 
tween the  gasps  of  his  own  laughter,  as  he  tossed 
his  own  fine  head  in  the  air,  sitting  on  his  rude 
bench,  covered  with  sheepskin,  as  if  it  had  been 


THREE  NORMANDY  INNS.  337 

an  armchair.  "  Ah,  ah  !  mesdames,  yon  didn't  ex- 
pect this,  hein  ?  You  hoped  for  a  landau,  and 
feathers  and  cushions,  perhaps  ?  But  soft  feath- 
ers and  springs  are  not  for  the  greve." 

"  Is  it  dang-erous  1  are  there  deep  holes  ?  " 

"  Oh,  the  holes,  they  are  as  nothing-.  It  is  the 
quicksands  we  fear.  But  it  is  only  a  little  dan- 
g-er,  and  danger  makes  the  charm  of  travel,  is  it 
not  so,  my  ladies  1  Adventure,  that  is  what  one 
travels  for !     Hid  !  Fend  I'Air  !  " 

It  had  occurred  to  us  before  that  we  had  been 
uncommonly  lucky  in  our  coachmen,  as  well  as 
in  the  names  of  the  horses,  that  had  brightened 
our  journey.  In  spite  of  Juliet,  whose  disdain  of 
the  virtue  or  the  charm  that  lies  in  a  name  is  no 
more  worthy  of  respect  than  is  any  lover's  opinion 
when  in  the  full-orbed  foolishness  of  his  lunacy, 
I  believe  names  to  be  a  very  effective  adjunct  to 
life's  scenic  setting.  Most  of  the  horses  we  had 
had  along  these  Normandy  high-roads,  had  an- 
swered to  names  that  had  helped  to  italicize  the 
features  of  the  country.  Could  Poulette,  the  sturdy 
little  mare,  with  whom  only  an  hour  ago  we  had 
parted  forever,  have  been  given  a  better  sobri- 
quet by  which  to  have  identified  for  us  the  fat 
landscape  ?  And  now  here  was  Fend  I'Air  proving 
good  his  talent  for  cleaving  through  space,  what- 
ever of  land  or  sea  lay  in  his  path. 

"  And  he  merits  his  name,  my  lady,"  his  driver 
announced  with  grave  pride,  as  he  looked  at  the 
huge  haunches  with  a  loving  eye.  "  He  can  go, 
oh,  but  as  the  wind !  It  is  he  who  makes  of  the 
crossing  but  as  if  it  were  nothing  ! " 


338  THREE  NORMANDY  INNS. 

The  crossiu.s: !  That  was  the  key-note  of  the 
way  the  coast  si^oke  of  the  Mont.  The  rock  out 
yonder  was  a  country  apart,  a  bit  of  hind  or  stone 
the  shore  chiimed  not,  had  no  part  in,  felt  to  be  as 
remote  as  if  it  were  a  foreign  province.  At  Ge- 
nets the  village  spoke  of  the  Mont  as  one  talks  of 
a  distant  land.  Even  the  journey  over  the  sands 
was  looked  upon  with  a  certain  seriousness.  A 
starting-  forth  was  the  signal  for  the  village  to  as- 
semble about  the  char -a -banc's  wheels.  Quite  a 
large  company  for  a  small  village  to  muster  was 
grouped  about  our  own  vehicle,  to  look  on  gravely 
as  we  mounted  to  the  rude  seat  within.  The  vil- 
lagers gave  us  their  "  honjours  "  with  as  much  fer- 
vor as  if  we  were  starting  forth  on  a  sea  voj^age. 

"  You  will  have  a  good  crossing !  "  cackled  one 
of  the  old  men,  nodding  toward  the  peak  in  the 
sky. 

"  The  sands  may  be  wet,  but  they  are  firm  al- 
ready !  "  added  a  huge  x)easant— the  fattest  man  in 
all  the  canton,  whisperingly  confided  the  landlady, 
as  one  proud  of  possessing  a  village  curiosit3^ 

"  Hni,  Fend  lAir !  attention,  toi  /  "  Fend  lAir 
tossed  his  fine  mane,  and  struck  out  with  a  will 
over  the  cobbles.  But  his  driver  was  only  pos- 
ing for  the  assembled  village.  He  was  in  no  real 
haste ;  there  was  a  fresh  voice  singing  yonder  in 
his  mother's  tavern ;  the  sentimentalist  in  him 
was  on  edge  to  hear  the  end  of  the  song. 

"  Do  you  hear  that,  mesdames  ?  There's  no  such 
singing  as  that  out  of  Paris.  One  must  go  to  a 
caf6 " 

"  Allans,  toi  !  "  shrieked  his  mother's  voice,  as 


THREE  NORMANDY  INNS.  339 

her  face  darkened.  "Do  you  think  these  ladies 
want  to  spend  the  night  on  the  (jrcve?  Depeclies- 
toi,  vaurien  !  "  And  she  gave  the  wheels  a  shove 
with  her  strong  hand,  whereat  all  the  village 
laughed.  But  the  good-for-nothing  son  made  no 
haste  as  the  song  went  on — 

"  Le  bon  vin  me  fait  dormir, 
Ucmiour  me  revell " 

He  continued  to  cock  his  head  on  one  side  and 
to  let  his  ej'es  dream  a  bit. 

Within,  a  group  of  peasants  was  gathered  about 
the  inn  table.  There  were  some  young  girls 
seated  among  the  blouses  ;  one  of  them,  for  the 
hour  that  we  had  sat  waiting  for  Fend  I'Air  to  be 
captured  and  harnessed,  had  been  singing  songs  of 
questionable  taste  in  a  voice  of  such  contralto 
sweetness  as  to  have  touched  the  heart  of  a  bishop. 
"  Some  young  girls  from  the  factories  at  Avranches, 
mesdames,  who  come  here  Sundays  to  get  a  bit  of 
fresh  air ;  Dieu  salt  si  elles  en  out  hesoin,  2^ciuvres 
enfants  !  "  was  the  landlady's  charitable  explana- 
tion. It  appeared  to  us  that  the  young  ladies  from 
Avranches  were  more  in  need  of  a  moral  than  a 
climatic  change.  But  then,  we  also  charitably  re- 
flected, it  makes  all  the  diflerence  in  the  world,  in 
these  nice  questions  of  taste  and  morality,  whether 
one  has  had  as  an  inheritance  a  past  of  Francis  I. 
and  a  Babelais,  or  of  Calvin  and  a  Puritan  con- 
science. 

The  geese  on  the  green  downs,  just  below  the 
village,  had  clearly  never  even  heard  of  Calvin ; 


340  THREE  NORMANDY  INNS. 

they  were  luxuriatiug  in  a  series  of  plung-es  into 
the  deep  pools  in  a  way  to  prove  complete  igno- 
rance of  nice  Sabbatarian  laws. 

AVith  our  first  toss  upon  the  clo-mis,  a  world  of 
new  and  fresh  experiences  began.  Genets  was 
qiiite  right ;  the  Mont  over  yonder  was  another 
countr}";  even  at  the  very  beginning  of  the 
journey  we  learned  so  much.  This  breeze  blow- 
ing in  from  the  sea,  that  had  swept  the  ramparts 
of  the  famous  rock,  was  a  double  extract  of  the 
sea-essence ;  it  had  all  the  salt  of  the  sea  and  the 
aroma  of  firs  and  wild  flowers ;  its  lips  had  not 
kissed  a  garden  in  high  air  without  the  perfiime 
lingering,  if  only  to  betraj^  them.  Even  this  strijD 
of  meadow  marsh  had  a  character  peculiar  to  itself ; 
half  of  it  belonged  to  earth  and  half  to  the  sea. 
You  might  have  thought  it  an  inland  pasture, 
with  its  herds  of  cattle,  its  flocks  of  sheep,  and  its 
colonies  of  geese — j)atrolled  by  ragged  urchins. 
But  behold,  somewhere  out  yonder  the  pasture  was 
lost  in  high  sea-waves ;  ships  with  bulging  sails 
replaced  the  curve  of  the  cattle's  sides,  and  in- 
stead of  bending  necks  of  sheep,  there  were  sea- 
gulls swooping  down  upon  the  foamj^  waves. 

As  the  incarnation  of  this  dual  life  of  sea  and 
land,  the  rock  stands.  It  also  is  both  of  the  sea 
and  the  land.  Its  feet  are  of  the  waters — rocks 
and  stones  the  sea-waves  have  used  as  playthings 
these  millions  of  years.  But  earth  regains  pos- 
session as  the  rocks  i)ile  themselves  into  a  moun- 
tain. Even  from  this  distance,  one  can  see  the 
moving  arms  of  great  trees,  the  masses  of  yellow 
flower-tips  that  dye  the  sides  of  the  stony  hill. 


THREE  NORMAJSDY  INNS.  341 

and  the  strips  of  green  grass  here  and  there.  So 
much  has  nature  done  for  this  wonderful  i^yramid 
in  the  sea.  Then  man  came  and  fashioned  it  to 
his  liking".  He  piled  the  stones  at  its  base  into 
titanic  walls ;  he  carved  about  its  sides  the  round- 
ed breasts  of  bastions;  he  x^iled  hig-herand  hig-her 
up  the  dizzy  heig-hts  a  medley  of  palaces,  con- 
vents, abbeys,  cloisters,  to  lay  at  the  very  top  the 
fitting-  crown  of  all,  a  jewelled  Norman-Gothic 
cathedral. 

Earth  and  man  have  thro^^^l  their  g-auntlet  down 
to  the  sea — this  rock  is  theirs,  they  cry  to  the 
waves  and  the  might  of  oceans.  And  the  sea 
laug-hs — as  strong  men  laug-li  when  boys  are 
ang-ry  or  insistent.  She  has  let  them  build  and 
toil,  and  pray  and  fight ;  it  is  all  one  to  her  what 
is  done  on  the  rock  —  whether  men  carve  its 
stones  into  lace,  or  rot  and  die  in  its  dungeons ; 
it  is  all  the  same  to  her  whether  each  spring  the 
daffodils  creep  up  within  the  crevices  and  the 
irises  nod  to  them  from  the  gardens. 

It  is  all  one  to  her.  For  twice  a  day  she  re- 
caxatures  the  Mont.  She  encircles  it  with  the 
strong  arm  of  her  tides ;  with  the  might  of  her 
waters  she  makes  it  once  more  a  thing  of  the  sea. 

The  tide  was  rising  now. 

The  fringe  of  the  downs  had  dabbled  in  the 
shoals  till  they  had  become  one.  We  had  left 
behind  the  last  of  the  shepherd  lads,  come  out  to 
the  edge  of  the  land  to  search  for  a  wandering- 
kid.  We  were  all  at  once  plunging  into  high 
water.  Our  road  was  sunk  out  of  sight ;  we  were 
driving  through  waves  as  high  as  our  cart-wheels. 


342  THREE  NORMANDY  INNS. 

Fend  TAir  was  shivering  ;  he  was  as  a-tremble  as 
a  woman.  The  height  of  the  rivers  was  not  to  his 
liking. 

"  Sacre  faineant  !  "  yelled  his  owner,  treating 
the  tremor  to  a  mighty  crack  of  the  whip. 

"  Is  he  afraid  ?  " 

"  Yes — when  the  water  is  as  high  as  that,  he  is 
always  afraid.  Ah,  there  he  is — diantre,  but  he  took 
his  time!"  he  growled,  but  the  growl  Avas  set  in 
the  key  of  relief.  He  was  pointing  toward  a  fig- 
ure that  was  leaping  toward  us  through  the  water. 
"  It  is  the  guide !  "   he  added,  in  explanation. 

The  guide  was  at  Fend  lAir's  shoulder.  Very 
little  of  him  was  above  water,  but  that  little  was 
as  brown  as  an  Egyptian.  He  was  jjuffing  and 
blowing  like  unto  a  porpoise.  In  one  hand  he 
held  a  huge  pitchfork — the  trident  of  this  watery 
Mercury. 

"  Shall  I  conduct  you  ?  "  he  asked,  dipping  the 
trident  as  if  in  salute,  into  the  water,  as  he  still 
puffed  and  gasjDed. 

"  If  you  please,"  as  gravely  responded  our  dri- 
ver. For  though  uf)  to  our  cart-wheels  and  breasts 
in  deep  water,  the  formalities  were  not  to  be  dis- 
pensed with,  you  understand.  The  guide  i^laced 
himself  at  once  in  front  of  Fend  lAir,  whose 
shivers  as  quickly  disappeared. 

"  You  see,  mesdames — the  guide  gives  him  cour- 
age— and  he  now  knows  no  fear,"  cried  out  with 
pride  our  whip  on  the  outer  bench.  "  And  what 
news,  Victor — is  there  any  ?  "  It  was  of  the  Mont 
he  was  asking.  And  the  guide  replied,  taking  an 
extra  plunge  into  deep  water : 


THREE  NORMANDY  INNS.  343 

"Oil,  not  much.  There's  to  be  a  wedding  to- 
morrow and  a  pilgrimage  the  next  day.  Madame 
Poulard  has  only  a  handful  as  yet.  Ces  dames 
descend  doubtless  at  Madame  Poulard's — celle  qui 
fait  les  omelettes  ?  "  The  ladies  were  ignorant  as 
yet  of  the  accomplishments  of  the  said  landladj' ; 
they  had  only  heard  of  her  beauty. 

"  C'est  elle"  gravely  chorussed  the  guide  and 
the  driver,  both  nodding  their  heads  as  their 
eyes  met.  "  Fameuse,  sa  beaute,  comme  son  omelette," 
as  gravely  added  our  di'iver. 

The  beauty  of  this  lady  and  the  fame  of  her  ome- 
lette were  very  sobering,  apparently,  in  their  ef- 
fects on  the  mind ;  for  neither  guide  nor  driver 
had  another  word  to  say. 

Still  the  guide  plunged  into  the  rivers,  and  Fend 
I'Air  followed  him.  Our  cart  still  pitched  and 
tossed — we  were  still  rocked  about  in  our  rough 
cradle.  But  the  sun,  now  freed  from  the  banks  of 
clouds,  was  lighting  our  way  with  a  great  and  sud- 
den glory.  And  for  the  rest  of  our  watery  jour- 
ney we  were  conscious  only  of  that  lighting.  Be- 
hind the  Mont,  lay  a  vast  sea  of  saffron.  But  it 
was  in  the  sky ;  against  it  the  great  rock  was  as 
black  as  if  the  night  were  upon  it.  Here  and 
there,  through  the  curve  of  a  flying  buttress,  or  the 
apertures  of  a  pierced  parapet,  gay  bits  of  this 
yellow  world  were  caught  and  framed.  The  sea 
lay  beneath  like  a  quiet  carpet ;  and  over  this  car- 
pet ships  and  sloops  swam  with  easy  gliding 
motion,  with  sails  and  cordage  dipped  in  gold. 
The  smaller  craft,  moored  close  to  shore,  seemed 
transfigured  as  in  a  fog  of  gold.     And  nearer  still 


344  THREE  NORMANDY  INNS. 

were  the  browu  walls  of  the  Mont  making  a  great 
shadow,  and  in  the  shadow  the  waters  were  as 
black  as  the  skin  of  an  African.  In  the  shoals 
there  were  lovely  masses  of  turquoise  and  i^al- 
est  green ;  for  here  and  there  a  cloudlet  passed, 
to  mirror  their  complexions  in  the  translucent 
pools. 

But  Fend  I'Air's  hoofs  had  struck  a  familiar 
note.  His  iron  shoes  were  clicking  along  the 
macadam  of  the  dike.  There  was  a  rapid  dashing 
beneath  the  great  walls ;  a  sudden  night  of  dark- 
ness as  we  plunged  through  an  open  archway 
into  a  narrow  village  street :  a  confused  impres- 
sion of  houses  built  into  side-walls ;  of  machico- 
lated  gateways ;  of  rocks  and  roof-tops  tumbling 
about  our  ears ;  and  within  the  street  was  sound- 
ing the  babel  of  a  shrieking  troop  of  men  and 
women.  Poiiers,  peasants,  lads,  and  childi'en  were 
clamoring  about  our  cart-wheels  like  unto  so  many 
jackals.  The  bedlam  did  not  cease  as  we  stopped 
before  a  wide,  brightly-lit  open  doorway. 

Then  through  the  doorway  there  came  a  tall, 
finely  -  featured  brunette.  She  made  her  way 
through  the  yelling  crowd  as  a  duchess  might 
cleave  a  path  through  a  rabble.  She  was  at  the 
side  of  the  cart  in  an  instant.  She  gave  us  a  bow 
and  smile  that  were  both  a  welcome  and  an  act  of 
appropriation.  She  held  out  a  firm,  soft,  brown 
hand.  When  it  closed  on  our  o"svn,  we  knew  it  to 
be  the  grasp  of  a  friend,  and  the  clasp  of  one  who 
knew  how  to  hold  her  world.  But  when  she 
spoke  the  words  were  all  of  velvet,  and  her  voice 
had  the  cadence  of  a  caress. 


THREE  NORMANDY  INNS.  345 

"  I  have  been  watching  you,  cheres  dames — cross- 
ing- the  greve — btit  how  wet  and  weary  you  must 
be !  Come  in  by  the  fire,  it  is  ablaze  now — I 
have  been  feeding  it  for  j^ou ! "  And  once  more 
the  beautifully  curved  lips  parted  over  the  fine 
teeth,  and  the  exceeding  brightness  of  the  dark 
eyes  smiled  and  glittered  in  our  own.  The  caress- 
ing voice  still  led  us  forward,  into  the  great  gay 
kitchen ;  the  touch  of  skilful,  discreet  fingers  un- 
did wet  cloaks  and  wraps ;  the  soft  charm  of  a 
lovely  and  gracious  woman  made  even  the  pene- 
trating warmth  of  the  huge  fire-logs  a  secondary 
feature  of  our  welcome.  To  those  who  have  never 
crossed  a  grreve  ,•  who  have  had  no  jolting  in  a 
Normandy  cJiai'-d-banc ;  who,  for  hours,  have  not 
known  the  mixed  pleasures  and  discomfort  of  be- 
ing a  part  of  sea-rivers ;  and  who  have  not  been 
met  at  the  threshold  of  an  Inn  on  a  Eock  by  the 
smiling  welcome  of  Madame  Poulard — all  such 
have  yet  a  joleasant  page  to  read  in  the  book  of 
travelled  experience. 

Meanwhile  somewhere,  in  an  inner  room,  things 
sweet  to  the  nostrils  were  cooking.  Maids  were 
tripping  up  and  down  stairs  with  covered  dishes  : 
there  was  the  pleasant  clicking  in  the  ear  of  the 
lids  of  things ;  dishes  or  pans  or  jars  were  being 
lifted.  A-ud  more  delicious  to  the  ear  than  even 
the  promise  to  starving  mouths  of  food,  and  of  red 
wine  to  the  lip,  was  the  continuing  music  of  ma- 
dame's  voice,  as  she  stood  over  us  purring  with 
content  at  seeing  her  travellers  drying  and  being 
thoroughly  warmed.  "  The  dinner-bell  must  soon 
be  rung,  dear  ladies ;  I  delayed  it  as  long  as  I 


346  THREE  NORMANDY  INNS. 

dared — I  gauged  your  progress  across  from  the 
terrace — I  have  kept  all  my  jaeople  waiting ;  for 
your  first  dinner  here  must  be  hot !  But  now  it 
rings  !     Shall  I  conduct  you  to  your  rooms  ? " 

I  have  no  doubt  that,  even  without  this  brunette 
beauty,  with  her  olive  cheek  and  her  comely  fig- 
ure as  guides,  we  should  have  gone  the  way  she 
took  us  in  a  sort  of  daze.  One  cannot  pass  un- 
der machicolated  gateways;  rustle  between  the 
walls  of  fourteenth  century  fortifications  ;  climb  a 
stone  stairway  that  begins  in  a  watch-tower  and 
ends  in  a  rampart,  with  a  great  sea  view,  and  with 
the  breadth  of  all  the  land  shoreward ;  walk  calmly 
over  the  top  of  a  king's  gate,  with  the  arms  of  a 
bishop  and  the  shrine  of  the  Yirgin  beneath  one's 
feet ;  and  then,  presently,  begin  to  climb  the  side 
of  a  rock  in  which  rude  stone  steps  have  been  cut, 
till  one  lands  on  a  miniature  terrace,  to  find  a  i^re- 
posterousl}'  sturdy-looking  house  afiixed  to  a  ri- 
diculous ledge  of  rock  that  has  the  presumption 
to  give  shelter  to  a  hundred  or  more  travellers — 
ground  enough,  also,  for  rows  of  plane-trees,  for 
honeysuckles,  and  rose-vine,  with  a  full  coquet- 
tish equii^ment  of  little  tables  and  iron  chairs — 
no  such  journey  as  that  up  a  rock  was  ever  taken 
with  entirely  sober  eyes. 

Although  her  j)eople  were  waiting  below,  and 
the  dinner  was  on  its  way  to  the  cloth,  Madame 
Poulard  had  plenty  of  time  to  give  to  the  beauty 
about  her.  How  fine  was  the  outlook  from  the  top 
of  the  ramparts !  AVTiat  a  fresh  sensation,  this, 
of  standing'  on  a  terrace  in  mid-air  and  looking 
down  on  the  sea,  and  across  to  the  level  shores  I 


THREE  NOBMANDT  INN'S.  347 

The  rose-vines — we  found  them  sweet — //e?i.s— one 
of  the  branches  had  fallen — she  had  full  time  to 
re-adjust  the  loosened  support.  And  "  Marianne, 
give  these  ladies  their  hot  water,  and  see  to  their 
bags — "  even  this  order  was  given  with  courtesy. 
It  was  only  when  the  sui^x^le,  agile  figure  had  left 
us  to  fly  down  the  steep  rock-cut  steps ;  when  it 
shot  over  the  top  of  the  gateway  and  slid  with 
the  grace  of  a  lizard  into  the  street  far  below  us, 
that  we  were  made  sensible  of  there  having  been 
any  especial  need  of  madame's  being  in  haste. 

That  night,  some  three  hours  later,  a  pictur- 
esque group  was  assembled  about  this  same  sup- 
pie  figure.  A  pretty,  and  unlooked-for  ceremony 
was  about  to  take  place. 

It  was  the  ceremony  of  the  lighting  of  the  lan- 
terns. 

In  the  great  kitchen,  in  the  dance  of  the  fire- 
light and  the  glow  of  the  lamps,  some  seven  or 
eight  of  us  were  being  equipj^ed  with  Chinese 
lanterns.  This  of  itself  was  an  engaging  sight. 
Madame  Poulard  was  always  gay  at  this  perform- 
ance—for it  meant  much  innocent  merriment 
among  her  guests,  and  with  the  lighting  of  the 
last  lantern, her  own  day  was  done.  So  the  brill- 
iant eyes  flashed  with  a  fresh  fire,  and  the  olive 
cheek  glowed  anew.  All  the  men  and  women 
laughed  as  children  sputter  laughter,  when  they 
are  both  pleased  and  yet  a  little  ashamed  to  show 
their  pleasure.  It  was  so  very  ridiculous,  this 
journey  up  a  rock  with  a  Chinese  lantern  !  But 
just  because  it  was  ridiculous,  it  was  also  delight- 
ful.    One — two — three — seven — eight — they    were 


348  THREE  NORMANDY  INNS. 

all. lit.  Tlie  last  male  guest  had  touched  his  cap 
to  madame,  exchanging"  the  "  bonne  nuil "  a  man 
onh^  gives  to  a  pretty  woman,  and  that  which  a 
woman  returns  who  feels  that  her  beauty  has  re- 
ceived its  just  meed  of  homage ;  madame's  figure 
stood,  still  smiling,  a  radiant  benedictory  j)res- 
ence,  in  the  doorway,  with  the  great  glow  of  the 
firelight  behind  her ;  the  last  laugh  echoed  down 
the  street — and  behold,  darkness  was  upon  iis ! 

The  street  was  as  black  as  a  cavern.  The  strip 
of  sky  and  the  stars  above  seemed  almost  day,  by- 
contrast.  The  great  arch  of  the  Porte  du  Eoi  en- 
gulphed  us,  and  then,  slowly  groping  our  waj^  we 
toiled  up  the  steps  to  the  open  ramparts.  Here 
the  keen  night  air  swept  rudely  through  our 
cloaks  and  garments ;  the  sea  tossed  beneath  the 
bastions  like  some  restless  tethered  creature,  that 
showed  now  a  gray  and  now  a  ]iurple  coat,  and 
the  stars  were  gold  balls  that  might  drop  at  any 
instant,  so  near  they  were. 

The  men  shivered  and  buttoned  their  coats, 
and  the  women  laughed,  a  trifle  shrilly,  as  they 
grasiDed  the  floating  burnous  closer  about  their 
faces  and  shoulders. 

And  the  lanterns'  beams  danced  a  strange  dance 
on  the  stone  flagging. 

Once  more  we  were  lost  in  darkness.  TVe  were 
passing  through  the  old  guard-house.  And  then 
slowly,  more  slowly  than  ever,  the  lanterns  were 
climbing  the  steps  cut  in  the  rock.  Hands  groped 
in  the  blackness  to  catch  hold  of  the  iron  railing  ; 
the  laughter  had  turned  into  little  shouts  and 
gasjDS  for  helj).     And   then  one  of   the   lanterns 


THREE  NORMANDY  INNS.  349 

played  a  treacherous  trick ;  it  showed  the  backs  of 
two  figures  groining  upward  together — about  one 
of  the  girlish  figures  a  man's  arm  was  flung.  As 
suddenly  the  noise  of  the  cries  was  stilled. 

The  lanterns  played  their  fitful  light  on  still 
other  objects.  They  illumined  now  a  vivid  yellow 
shrub ;  they  danced  upon  a  roof-top ;  they  flood- 
ed, with  a  sudden  circlet  of  brilliance,  the  awful 
depths  below  of  the  swirling  waters  and  of  rocks 
that  were  black  as  a  bottomless  pit. 

Then  the  terrace  was  reached.  And  the  lan- 
terns danced  a  last  gay  little  dance  among  the 
roses  and  the  vines  before,  Pouffe !  Pouffe !  and 
behold !  they  were  all  blown  out. 

Thus  it  was  we  went  to  bed  on  the  Mont. 


CHAPTEE  XXX. 

AN  HISTORICAL    OMELETTE. — THE    PILGRIMS    AND   THE 
SHEIXE. 


To  awake  on  a  hilltop  at  sea. 
This  was  what  morning' 
])roiig-ht. 

CroAvcl  this  hill  with 
houses  plastered  to  the  sides 
of  rocks,  with  great  walls 
iiirdling  it,  with  tiny  gardens 
lodged  in  crevices,  and  with 
a  forest  tumbling  seaward. 
'^  Let   this    hill    yield    you    a 

town  in  which  to  walk,  with  a  street  of  many- 
storied  houses ;  with  other  promenades  along  ram- 
parts as  broad  as  church  aisles:  with  dungeons, 
cloisters,  halls,  guard-rooms,  abbatial  gateways, 
and  a  cathedral  whose  flying  buttresses  seemed 
to  spring  from  mid-air  and  to  end  in  a  cloud — 
such  was  the  world  into  which  we  awoke  on  the 
heights  of  Mont  St.  Michel. 

The  verdict  of  the  shore  on  the  hill  had  been  a 
just  one ;  this  world  on  a  rock  was  a  world  apart. 
This  hill  in  the  sea  had  a  detached  air — as  if, 
though  French,  at  heart  a  true  Gaul,  it  had  had 
from  the  beginning  of  things  a  life  of  adventure 
peculiar  to  itself.      The  shore,  at  best,  had  been 


THREE  NORMANDY  INNS.  351 

only  a  foster-mother ;  the  hill  was  the  true  child 
of  the  sea.  Since  its  birth  it  has  had  a  more  or 
less  enforced  separateness,  in  experience,  from  the 
country  to  which  it  belonged.  Whether  temple 
or  fortress,  whether  forest-clad  in  virginal  fierce- 
ness of  aspect,  or  subdued  into  l^eauty  by  the 
touch  of  man's  chisel,  its  destinj"  has  ever  been 
the  same — to  suffice  unto  itself — to  be,  in  a  word, 
a  world  in  miniature. 

The  Mont  proved  by  its  appearance  its  history 
in  adventure ;  it  had  the  grim,  grave,  battered 
look  that  comes  only  to  features,  whether  of  rock 
or  of  more  ]olastic  human  mould — that  have  been 
carved  by  the  rough  handling  of  experience. 

It  is  the  common  habit  of  hills  and  mountains, 
as  we  all  know,  to  turn  disdainful  as  they  grow 
skyward ;  they  only  too  eagerly  drop,  one  by  one, 
the  things  by  which  man  has  marked  the  earth  for 
his  own.  To  stand  on  a  mountain  top  and  to  go 
down  to  your  grave  are  alike,  at  least  in  this — 
that  you  have  left  everything,  except  yourself,  be- 
hind you.  But  it  is  both  the  charm  and  the  tri- 
umph of  Mont  St.  Michel,  that  it  carries  so  miich 
of  man's  handiwork  up  into  the  blue  fields  of  air ; 
this  achievement  alone  would  mark  it  as  unique 
among  hills.  It  appears  as  if  for  once  man  and 
nature  had  agreed  to  work  in  concert  to  produce  a 
masterpiece  in  stone.  The  hill  and  the  archi- 
tectural beauties  it  carries  aloft,  are  like  a  taunt 
flung  out  to  sea  and  to  the  upjjer  heights  of  air ; 
for  centuries  they  aj^pear  to  have  been  crying 
aloud,  '■  See  what  we  can  do,  against  your  tempests 
and  your  futile  tides — when  we  try." 


352  THREE  NORMANDY  INNS. 

On  that  particular  morning-,  the  tannt  seemed 
more  like  an  ei^ithalamium — such  marriag'e-liues 
did  sea  and  sky  appear  to  be  reading  over  the 
glistening  face  of  the  rock.  June  had  pitched  its 
tent  of  blue  across  the  seas  ;  all  the  world  was 
blue,  except  where  the  sun  smote  it  into  gold.  To 
eyes  in  love  with  beauty,  what  a  world  at  one's 
feet !  Beneath  that  azure  roof,  toward  the  west, 
was  the  world  of  water,  curling,  dimpling,  like 
some  human  thing  charged  with  the  conscious  joy 
of  dancing  in  the  sun.  Shoreward,  the  more  stable 
earth  was  in  the  Moslem's  ideal  posture — that  of 
perpetual  prostration.  The  Brittany  coast  was  a 
long,  flat,  green  band ;  the  rocks  of  Cancale  were 
brown,  but  scarcely  higher  in  point  of  elevation 
than  the  sand-hills ;  the  Normandy  forests  and 
orchards  were  rippling  lines  that  focussed  into 
the  spiral  of  the  Avranches  cathedral  spires ; 
floating  between  the  two  blues,  hung  the  aerial 
shapes  of  the  Chaunsey  and  the  Channel  Islands  ; 
and  nearer,  along  the  coast-line,  were  the  fringing 
edges  of  the  shore,  broken  with  shoals  and  shal- 
lows— earth's  fingers,  as  it  were,  touching  the  sea 
— playing-,  as  Coleridge's  Abyssinian  maid  fingered 
the  dulcimer,  that  music  that  haunts  the  poet's  ear. 

"We  were  seated  at  the  little  iron  tables,  on  the 
terrace.  We  were  sipping  our  morning  cofiee, 
beneath  the  j)lane-trees.  The  terrace,  a  foot  be- 
yond our  coffee-cups,  instantly  began  its  true  ca- 
reer as  a  precipice.  We,  ourselves,  seemed  to 
have  begun  as  suddenly  our  own  flight  heaven- 
ward— on  such  astonishing  terms  of  intimacy  were 
we  with  the  sky.     The  clapping  close  to  our  ears 


THREE  NORMANDY  INNS.  353 

of  larg-e-wing-ed  birds ;  the  swirling-  of  the  circling- 
sea-gulls ;  the  amazing  nearness  of  the  cloud 
drapery — all  this  gave  us  the  sense  of  being-  in  a 
new  world,  and  of  its  being  a  strang-ely  pleasant 
one. 

Suddenly  a  cock's  crow,  shrill  and  clear,  made 
us  start  from  the  luxurious  languor  of  our  content- 
ment ;  for  we  had  scarcely  looked  to  find  laoultry 
on  this  Hill  of  Surprises.  Tui-ning-  in  the  direction 
of  the  homely,  familiar  note,  we  beheld  a  garden. 
In  this  garden  walked  the  cock — a  two-legged 
gentleman  of  gorgeous  plumage.  If  abroad  for 
purely  constitutional  purposes,  the  crowing  chan- 
ticleer must  be  forced  to  pass  the  same  objects 
many  times  in  review.  Of  all  infinitesimal,  micro- 
scopic gardens,  this  one,  surely,  was  a  model  in 
minuteness.  Yet  it  was  an  entirely  self-respect- 
ing little  garden.  It  was  not  much  larger  than  a 
generous-sized  pocket-handkerchief ;  yet  how  much 
talent — for  growing- — may  be  hidden  in  a  yard  of 
soil— if  the  soil  have  the  right  virtue  in  it.  Here 
were  two  rocks  forming,  with  a  fringe  of  clifi',  a  tri- 
angle ;  in  that  tri-cornered  bit  of  earth  a  lively 
crop  of  growing-  veg-etables  was  offering  flatter- 
ing signs  of  promise  to  the  owner's  eye.  Where 
all  land  runs  aslant,  as  all  land  does  on  this  Mont, 
not  an  inch  was  to  be  wasted  ;  up  the  rocks  peach 
and  pear-split  trees  were  made  to  climb — and  why 
should  they  not,  since  everything  else — since  man 
himself  must  climb  from  the  moment  he  touches 
the  base  of  the  hill  ? 

Following  the  cock's  call,  came  the  droning- 
sweetness  of  bees ;  the  rose  and  the  honeysuckle 


354  THREE  NORMANDY  INNS. 

vines  were  loading-  the  morning-  air  with  the  per- 
fume of  their  invitations.  Then  a  human  voice 
drowned  the  bees'  whirring-,  and  a  face  as  fresh 
and  as  smiling-  as  the  day  stood  beside  us.  It  was 
the  voice  and  the  face  of  Madame  Poulard,  on  the 
round  of  her  morning-  inspections.  Our  table  and 
the  radiant  world  at  her  feet  were  included  in  this, 
her  line  of  observations. 

"Ah,  inesdaiiies,  cumnie  voiis  savez  Men  vous 
placer  ! — hoAv  admirably  you  understand  how  to 
place  yourselves  !  Under  such  a  sky  as  this — be- 
fore such  a  si^ectacle — one  should  be  in  the  front 
row,  as  at  a  theatre !  " 

And  that  was  the  beginning-  of  our  deeds  finding- 
favor  in  the  eyes  of  Madame  Poulard. 

It  was  our  happy  fate  to  di'ink  many  a  moming- 
cup  of  coffee  at  those  little  iron  tables ;  to  have 
many  a  prolonged  chat  with  the  charming-  land- 
lady of  the  famous  inn;  to  become  as  familiar 
with  the  glories  and  splendors  of  the  historical 
hill  as  with  the  habits  and  customs  of  the  world 
that  came  up  to  view  them. 

For  here  our  journey  was  to  end. 

The  comedy  of  life,  as  it  had  played  itself  out 
in  Normandy  inns,  was  here,  in  this  Inn  on  a  Eock, 
to  give  us  a  series  of  farewell  performances.  On 
no  other  stage,  we  were  agreed,  could  the  versatile 
French  character  have  had  as  admirable  and  pict- 
uresque a  setting- ;  and  surely,  on  no  other  bit  of 
French  soil  could  such  an  astonishing  and  amaz- 
ing variety  of  types  be  assembled  for  a  final  ap- 
pearance, as  came  up,  day  after  day,  to  make  the 
tour  of  the  Mont. 


THREE  NORMANDY  INNS.  355 

To  tlie  shore,  and  for  tlie  whole  of  the  near-lying 
Breton  and  Norman  rustic  world,  the  Mont  is  still 
the  Hill  of  Delig-ht.  It  is  their  Alp,  their  shrine, 
the  tenth  wonder  of  the  world,  a  i^rison,  a  jDalaee, 
and  a  temple  still.  In  spite  of  Parisian  changes 
in  religious  fashions,  the  blouse  is  still  devout ; 
for  curiosity  is  the  true  religion  of  the  provincial, 
and  all  love  of  adventui'e  did  not  die  out  with  the 
Crusades. 

Therefore  it  is  that  rustic  France  along  this 
coast  still  makes  pilgrimages  to  the  shrine  of  the 
Archangel  St.  Michael.  Xo  marriage  is  rightly 
arranged  which  does  not  include  a  wedding- jour- 
ney across  the  rireve  :  no  nuptial  breakfast  is  aure- 
oled  with  the  true  halo  of  romance  which  is  eaten 
elsewhere  than  on  these  heights  in  mid-air.  The 
yoimg  come  to  drink  deep  of  wonders;  the  old, 
to  refresh  the  depleted  fountains  of  memory :  and 
the  tourist,  behold,  he  is  as  a  plague  of  locusts 
let  loose  upon  the  defenceless  hill ! 

After  a  fortnight's  sojourn.  Charm  and  I  held 
many  a  grave  consultation ;  close  observation  of 
this  world  that  climbed  the  heights  had  bred  cer- 
tain strange  misgivings.  "WTiat  was  it  this  world 
of  sight-seers  came  up  to  the  Mont  for  to  see  ? 
Was  it  to  behold  the  great  glories  thereof,  or 
was  it,  oh,  human  eye  of  man  !  to  look  on  the  face 
of  a  charming  woman  ?  It  was  impossible,  after 
sojourning  a  certain  time  upon  the  hill,  not  to 
concede  that  there  were  two  equally  strong  cen- 
tres of  attractions,  that  drew  the  world  hither- 
w^ard.  One  remained,  indeed,  gravely  suspended 
between  the  doubt  and  the  fear,  as  to  which  of 


356  THREE  NORMANDY  INNS. 

these  potential  units  had  the  greater  pnll,  in 
IDoint  of  actual  attraction.  The  impartial  histo- 
rian, g-iven  to  a  just  Aveighing-  of  evidence,  would 
have  been  startled  to  find  how  invariably  the 
scales  tipped ;  how  lightly  an  historical  Mont, 
born  of  a  miracle,  crowned  by  the  noblest  build- 
ings, a  pious  Mecca  for  saints  and  kings  in- 
numerable, shot  up  like  feathers  in  lightness 
when  over-weighted  by  the  modem  realities  of 
a  perfectly  appointed  inn,  the  cooking  and  eat- 
ing" of  an  omelette  of  omelettes,  and  the  all-con- 
quering charms  of  Madame  Poulard.  The  fog-  of 
doubt  thickened  as,  day  after  day,  the  same  scenes 
were  enacted ;  when  one  beheld  all  sorts  and  con- 
ditions of  men  similarly  affected ;  when,  again 
and  again,  the  potentiality  in  the  human  magnet 
was  proved  true.  Doubt  turned  to  conviction,  at 
the  last,  that  the  holy  shrine  of  St.  Michael  had, 
in  truth,  been  violated ;  that  the  Mont  had  been 
desecrated ;  that  the  latter  exists  now  solely  as  a 
setting  for  a  i^earl  of  an  inn ;  and  that  within  the 
shrine — it  is  Madame  Poulard  herself  who  fills 
the  niche ! 

The  pilgrims  come  from  darkest  Africa  and  the 
sunlit  Yosemite,  but  they  remain  to  pray  at  the 
Inn  of  the  Omelette.  Yonder,  on  the  greves,  as 
we  ourselves  had  j^roved,  one  crosses  the  far  seas 
and  one  is  wet  to  the  skin,  only  to  hear  the 
praises  sung  of  madame's  skill  in  the  handling 
of  eggs  in  a  pan ;  it  is  for  this  the  lean  g-uide 
strides  before  the  pilgrim  tourist,  and  that  he 
dippeth  his  trident  in  the  waters.  At  the  great 
gates  of  the  fortifications  the  pilgrim  descends, 


THREE  NORMANDT  INNS.  357 

and  behold,  a  howling-  chorus  of  serving'-people 
take  up  the  chant  of :  "  Chez  Madame  Poulard,  a 
gauche,  a  la  renommee  de  Vomelette  !  "  The  inner 
walls  of  the  towTi  lend  themselves  to  their  last 
and  best  estate,  that  of  proclaiming-  the  giory  of 
"  L' Omelette."  Placards,  rich  in  indicative  illus- 
trations of  hands  all  forefing-ers,  point,  with  a 
directness  never  vouchsafed  the  sinner  eager  to 
find  the  way  to  rig-ht  and  duty,  to  the  inn  of 
"  V Incomparable,  la  Fameuse  Omelette  !  "  The  i^il- 
grims  meekly  descend  at  that  shrine.  They  bow 
low  to  the  worker  of  the  modern  miracle  ;  they 
pass  with  eag-er,  trembling-  foot,  into  the  inner 
sanctorum,  to  the  kitchen,  where  the  presiding- 
deity  receives  them  with  the  grace  of  a  queen  and 
the  simplicity  of  a  saint. 

Life  on  the  Mont,  as  we  soon  found,  resolved 
itself  into  this — into  so  arranging-  one's  day  as  to 
be  on  hand  for  the  great,  the  eventful  hour.  In 
point  of  fact  there  were  two  such  hours  in  the  Mont 
St.  Michel  day.  There  was  the  hour  of  the  cook- 
ing of  the  omelette.  There  was  always  the  other 
really  more  tragic  hour,  of  the  coming  across  the 
dike,  of  the  huge  lumbering  omnibuses.  For  you 
see,  that  although  one  may  be  beautiful  enough 
to  compete  successfully  against  dead-and-gone 
saints,  against  worn-out  miracles,  and  wonders 
in  stone,  human  nature,  when  it  is  alive,  is  hu- 
man nature  still.  It  is  the  curse  of  success,  the 
world  over,  to  arouse  jealousy :  and  we  all  have 
lived  long  enough  to  know  that  jealousy's  evil- 
browed  offspring  are  named  Hate  and  Competi- 
tion.    Up  yonder,  beyond  the  Porte  du  Eoi,  ri- 


358  THREE  NORMANDY  INNS. 

valiy  has  set  up  a  coiiiiter-sbrine,  with  a  compe- 
ting" saint,  with  all  the  hateful  accessories  of  a 
pretty  face,  a  younger  figure,  and  a  graceful  if 
less  skilled  aptitude  in  the  making  of  omelettes  in 
public. 

The  hour  of  the  coming  in  of  the  coaches,  was, 
therefore,  a  tragic  hour. 

On  the  arrival  of  the  coaches  Madame  was  at 
her  post  long  before  the  pilgrims  came  up  to  her 
dooi\  Being  entirely  without  personal  vanity — 
since  she  felt  her  beauty,  her  cleverness,  her  grace, 
and  her  charm  to  be  only  a  part  of  the  capital  of 
the  inn  trade — a  higher  order  of  the  stock  in  trade, 
as  it  were — she  made  it  a  point  to  look  hand- 
somer on  the  arrival  of  coaches  than  at  any  other 
time.  Her  cheeks  were  certain  to  be  rosier ;  her 
bird's  head  was  always  carried  a  trifle  more  tak- 
ingly, perched  coquettishly  sideways,  that  the 
caressing  smile  of  welcome  might  be  the  more 
personal ;  and  as  the  woman  of  business,  lining 
the  saint,  so  to  speak,  was  also  present,  into  the 
deep  pockets  of  the  blue-checked  apron,  the  cal- 
culating fingers  were  thrust,  that  the  quick  count- 
ing of  the  incoming  guests  might  not  be  made 
too  obvious  an  action. 

After  such  a  pose,  to  see  a  pilgrim  escape  !  To 
see  him  pass  by,  unmoved  by  that  smile,  turning 
his  feelingless  back  on  the  true  shrine  !  It  was 
enough  to  melt  the  stoutest  heart.  Madame's 
welcome  of  the  cajDtured,  after  such  an  afixont, 
was  set  in  the  minor  key ;  and  her  smile  was  the 
smile  of  a  suffering  angel. 

"  Cours,  mon  enfant,  run,  see  if  he  descends  or  if 


THREE  NORMANDY  INNS.  359 

he  pushes  on ;  tell  him  /  am  Madame  Poulard  !  " 
This,  a  low  command  murmured  between  a  hun- 
dred orders,  still  in  the  minor  key,  would  be 
purred  to  Clementine,  a  peasant  in  a  cap,  exceed- 
ing fleet  of  foot,  and  skilled  in  the  capture  of 
wandering  sheep. 

And  Clementine  would  follow  that  stray  pil- 
grim ;  she  would  attack  him  in  the  open  street ; 
would  even  climb  after  him,  if  need  be,  up  the 
steep  rock-steps,  till,  proved  to  be  following 
strange  gods,  he  would  be  brought  triumphantly 
back  to  the  kitchen-shrine,  by  Clementine,  puf- 
fing, but  exultant. 

"  Ah,  monsieur,  how  could  you  pass  us  by  ?  " 
madame's  soft  voice  would  murmur  reproachfully 
in  the  pilgrim's  ear.  And  the  pilgrim,  abashed, 
ashamed,  would  quickly  make  answer,  if  he  were 
born  of  the  right  parents :  "  Chere  madame,  how 
was  I  to  believe  my  e3'es  ?  It  is  ten  years  since  I 
was  here,  and  you  are  younger,  more  beautiful 
than  ever !  I  was  going  in  search  of  your  moth- 
er !  "  at  which  needless  truism  all  the  kitchen 
would  laugh.  Madame  Poulard  herself  would  find 
time  for  one  of  her  choicest  smiles,  although  this 
was  the  great  moment  of  the  working  of  the 
miracle.  She  was  beginning  to  cook  the  ome- 
lette. 

The  head-cook  was  beating  the  eggs  in  a  great 
yellow  bowl.  Madame  had  already  taken  her 
stand  at  the  yawning  Louis  XV.  fireplace ;  she 
was  beginning  gently  to  balance  the  huge  casserole 
over  the  glowing  logs.  And  all  the  pilgrims  were 
standing  about,  watching  the  j)rocess.     Now,  the 


360  THREE  NORMANDY  INNS. 

group  circling-  about  the  great  fireplace  was 
scarcely  ever  the  same :  the  pilgrims  presented  a 
different  face  and  garb  day  after  day — but  in  point 
of  hunger  they  were  as  one  man  ;  they  were  each 
and  all  as  unvaryingly  hungry  as  only  tourists 
could  be,  who,  clamoring  for  food,  have  the  smell 
of  it  in  their  nostrils,  with  the  added  ache  of 
emptiness  gnawing  within.  But  besides  hunger, 
each  one  of  the  j)ilgrims  had  brought  with  him  a 
pair  of  eyes ;  and  what  eyes  of  man  can  be  pure 
savage  before  the  spectacle  of  a  pretty  woman 
cooking,  for  him,  before  an  open  fire  ?  Therefore 
it  was  that  still  another  miracle  was  wrought,  that 
of  turning  a  famished  mob  into  a  buzzing-  swarm 
of  admirers. 

"  3Iais  si,  monsieur,  in  this  pan  I  can  cook  an 
omelette  large  enough  for  you  all :  you  will  see. 
Ah,  madame,  you  are  off  already  ?  Cclestine ! 
Madame's  bill,  in  the  desk  yonder.  And  you, 
monsieur,  you  too  leave  us  %  Deux  cognacs  ?  Vic- 
tor —  deux  cognacs  et  une  demi-tasse  pour  mon- 
sieur !  " 

These  and  a  hundred  other  answers  and  ques- 
tions and  orders,  were  uttered  in  a  fluted  voice  or 
in  a  tone  of  sharp  command,  by  the  miracle-worker, 
as  the  pan  was  kept  gently  turning,  and  the  eggs 
were  poured  in  at  just  the  right  moment — not  one 
of  the  pretty  poses  of  head  and  wrist  being  forgot- 
ten. Madame  Poulard,  like  all  clever  women  who 
are  also  pretty,  had  two  voices :  one  was  dedicated 
solely  to  the  working  of  her  charms  ;  this  one  was 
soft,  melodious,  caressing,  the  voice  of  dove  when 
cooing ;  the  other,  used  for  strictly  business  pur- 


THREE  NORMANDY  INNS.  361 

poses,  was  set  in  the  quick,  metallic  staccato  tones 
proper  for  such  occasions. 

The  dove's  voice  was  trolling-  its  sweetness,  as 
she  went  on 

"  Eg-gs,  monsieur  ?  How  many  I  use  ?  Ah,  it 
is  in  the  season  that  counting  the  dozens  becomes 
difficult  —  seventy  dozen  I  used  one  day  last 
year ! " 

"  Seventy  dozen  !  "  the  iiilgrim  -  chorus  ejacu- 
lated, their  eyes  growing*  the  wider  as  their  lips 
moistened.  For  behold,  the  eggs  were  now  cooked 
to  a  turn  ;  the  long-handled  pan  was  being  lifted 
with  the  effortless  skill  of  long  practice,  the  ome- 
lette was  rolled  out  at  just  the  right  instant  of 
consistency,  and  was  being-  as  quickly  turned  into 
its  great  flat  dish. 

There  was  a  scurrying  and  scampering  up 
the  wide  steps  to  the  dining-room,  and  a  hasty 
settling  into  the  long  rows  of  chairs.  Presently 
madame  herself  would  appear,  bearing  the  huge 
dish.  And  the  omelette — the  omelette,  unlike  the 
pilgrims,  would  be  found  to  be  always  the  same — 
melting,  juicy,  golden,  luscious,  and  above  all 
liot  ! 

The  noon-day  table  d'hote  was  always  a  sight  to 
see.  Many  of  the  pilgrim-tourists  came  up  to  the 
Mont  merely  to  pass  the  day,  or  to  stop  the  night ; 
the  midday  meal  was  therefore  certain  to  be  the 
liveliest  of  all  the  repasts. 

The  cloth  was  spread  in  a  high,  white,  sunlit 
room.  It  was  a  trifle  bare,  this  room,  in  spite  of 
the  walls  being  covered  with  pictures,  the  win- 
dows with  pretty  drajDeries,  and  the  spotless  linen 


362  THREE  XOIi.VAXDT  INNS. 

that  covered  the  long-  table.  But  all  temples 
liowever  richly  adorned,  have  a  more  or  less  un- 
furnished aspect ;  and  this  room  served  not  only 
as  the  diniug-table,  but  also  as  a  foreshadowing-  of 
the  apotheosis  of  Madame  Poulard.  Here  were 
g-roujjed  together  all  the  trophies  and  tributes  of 
a  grateful  world ;  there  were  portraits  of  her 
charming-  brunette  face  sig-ued  by  famous  admir- 
ers ;  there  were  sonnets  to  her  culinarj'^  skill  and 
her  charms  as  hostess,  framed :  these  alternated 
with  gifts  of  horned  beasts  that  had  been  slain  in 
her  honor,  and  of  stuffed  birds  who,  in  life,  had 
beguiled  the  long  winters  for  her  with  their  songs. 
About  the  wide  table,  the  snow  of  the  linen  re- 
flected always  the  same  picture ;  there  were  rows 
of  little  palms  in  flower-pots,  interspersed  with 
fruit  dishes,  with  the  butter  pats,  the  almonds, 
and  raisins,  in  their  flat  plates. 

The  rows  of  faces  above  the  cloth  were  more 
varied.  The  four  corners  of  the  earth  were  some- 
times to  be  seen  gathered  together  about  the 
breakfast-table.  Frenchmen  of  the  Midi,  Avith  the 
skin  of  Spaniards  and  the  buzz  of  Tartarin's  ze  ze 
in  their  speech  ;  priests,  lean  and  fat  ;  Germans 
who  came  to  see  a  French  stronghold  as  defence- 
less as  a  woman's  palm  ;  the  Italian,  a  rarer  iy^Q, 
whose  shoes,  sufiiciently  pointed  to  jDrick,  and 
whose  choice  for  decollete  collars  betrayed  his  na- 
tionality before  his  lisping  French  accent  could 
place  him  indisputably  be3'ond  the  Alps  ;  herds  of 
English — of  all  types— from  the  aristocrat,  whose 
open-air  life  had  colored  his  face  with  the  hues  of 
a  butcher,  to  the  pale,  ascetic  clerk,  oft"  on  a  two 


THREE  NORMANDY  INNS.  363 

weeks'  lioliday,  whose  bending-  at  his  desk  had 
given  him  the  stoop  of  a  schohir ;  with  all  these 
were  mixed  hordes  of  French  provincials,  chiefly 
of  the  bourgeois  tj'pe,  who  singly,  or  in  family 
parties,  or  in  the  nuptial  train  of  sons  or  daug-li- 
ters,  came  up  to  the  shrine  of  St.  Michel. 

To  listen  to  the  chatter  of  these  tourists  was  to 
learn  the  last  word  of  the  world's  news.  As  in  the 
days  before  men  spoke  to  each  other  across  conti- 
nents, and  the  medium  of  cold  t\'pe  had  made  the 
event  of  to-day  the  history  of  to-morrow,  so  these 
pilgrims  talked  through  the  one  medium  that 
alone  can  give  a  fact  the  real  essence  of  freshness 
— the  ever  young-,  the  perdurably  charming  hu- 
man voice.  It  was  as  good  as  sitting  out  a  play 
to  watch  the  ever-recurring  characteristics,  which 
made  certain  national  traits  as  marked  as  the 
noses  on  the  faces  of  the  tourists.  The  question, 
for  example,  on  which  side  the  Channel  a  pilgrim 
was  born,  was  settled  five  seconds  after  he  was 
seated  at  table.  The  way  in  which  the  butter  was 
passed  was  one  test ;  the  manner  of  the  eating  of 
the  famous  omelette  was  another.  If  the  tourist 
were  a  Frenchman,  the  neat  glass  butter-dish  was 
turned  into  a  visiting-card — a  letter  of  introduc- 
tion, a  pontoon-bridge,  in  a  word,  hastily  impro- 
vised to  throw  across  the  stream  of  conversation. 
"  JIadame  "  (this  to  the  lady  at  the  tourist's  left), 
me permet-elle  de  luioffrir  le  beurre  ?  "  Whereat  ma- 
dame  bowed,  smiled,  accepted  the  golden  balls  as 
if  it  were  a  bouquet,  returning  the  gift,  a  few  sec- 
onds later,  by  the  proffer  of  the  gravy  dish.  Be- 
tween the  little  ceremony  of  the  two  bows  and  the 


364  THREE  NORMANDY  INNS. 

smiling"  7?ie7'Ci'.s,  a  tentative  outbreak  of  speech  en- 
sued, which  at  the  end  of  a  half-hour,  had  spread 
from  bourgeois  to  countess,  from  cure  to  Parisian 
houlevardler,  till  the  entire  side  of  the  table  was 
in  a  buzz  of  talk.  These  genial  people  of  a  genial 
land  finding"  themselves  all  in  search  of  the  same 
adventure,  on  top  of  a  hill,  away  from  the  petty 
world  of  conventionality,  remembered  that  speech 
was  given  to  man  to  communicate  with  his  fel- 
lows. And  though  neig-hbors  for  a  brief  hour, 
how  charming"  such  an  hour  can  be  made  when 
into  it  are  crowded  the  effervescence  of  iiersonal 
experience,  the  witty  exchange  of  comment  and 
observation,  and  the  agreeable  conflict  of  thought 
and  opinion  ! 

On  the  opposite  side  of  the  table,  Avhat  a  con- 
trast !  There  the  English  were  seated.  There 
was  the  silence  of  the  grave.  All  the  rigid  fig- 
ures sat  as  upright  as  posts.  In  front  of  these 
severe  countenances,  the  butter-plates  remained 
as  fixtures ;  the  passing"  of  them  to  a  neighbor 
would  be  a  frightful  breach  of  g"ood  form — be- 
sides being"  dangerous.  Such  practices,  in  public 
places,  had  been  known  to  lead  to  things — to  un- 
speakable things — to  knowing"  the  wrong  people, 
to  walks  afterward  with  cads  one  couldn't  shake 
off,  even  to  marriages  with  the  impossible  !  There- 
fore it  was  that  the  butter  remained  a  fixture. 
Even  between  those  who  formed  the  same  tourist- 
party,  there  was  rarely  such  an  act  of  self-forget- 
fulness  committed  as  an  indulgence  in  talk — in 
public.  The  eye  is  the  only  active  organ  the 
Englishman  carries  abroad  with  him  ;  his  talking" 


THREE  NORMANDY  INNS.  365 

is  done  by  staring.  What  fierce  scowls,  what  dark 
looks  of  disapproval,  contempt,  and  dislike  were 
levelled  at  the  chattering-  Frenchmen  opposite. 

Across  the  table,  the  national  hate  perpetuated 
itself.  It  ajppears  to  be  a  test  of  patriotism, 
this  hatred  between  Frenchmen  and  Englishmen. 
That  strip  of  linen  might  easily  have  been  the 
Channel  itself ;  it  could  scarcely  more  effectually 
have  separated  the  two  nations.  A  whole  comedy 
of  bitterness,  a  drama  of  rivalry,  and  a  five-act 
tragedy  of  scorn  were  daily  x^layed  between  the 
Briton  who  sat  facing  the  south,  and  the  French- 
man who  faced  north.  Both,  as  they  eyed  their 
neighbor  over  the  foam  of  their  napkins,  had  the 
Island  in  their  eye  ! — the  Englishman  to  flaunt  its 
might  and  glory  in  the  teeth  of  the  hated  Gaul, 
and  the  Frenchman  to  return  his  contempt  for  a 
nation  of  moist  barbarians. 

Meanwhile,  the  omelette  was  going  its  rounds. 
It  was  being  passed  at  that  moment  to  Monsieur 
le  Cure.  He  had  been  watching  its  progress  with 
glistening  eye  and  moistening  lips.  Madame 
Poulard,  as  she  slipped  the  melting  morsel  be- 
neath his  elbow,  had  suddenly  assumed  the  role 
of  the  penitent.  Her  tone  was  a  reminder  of  the 
confessional,  as  of  one  who  passed  her  master- 
piece apologetically.  She,  forsooth,  a  sinner,  to 
have  the  honor  of  ministering  to  the  carnal  needs 
of  a  son  of  the  Church  ! 

The  son  of  the  Church  took  two  heaping  spoon- 
fuls. His  eye  gave  her,  with  his  smile,  the  bene- 
diction of  his  gratitude,  even  before  he  had  tasted 
of  the  luscious  compoimd. 


366  THREE  NORMANDY  INNS. 

"Ah,  chere  utachune  !  il  n'y  a  que  vans — it  is  only 
you  wlio  can  make  the  ideal  omelette  !  I  have 
tried,  but  Suzette  lias  no  art  in  her  fingers ;  your 
receipt  doesn't  Avork  away  from  the  Mont !  "  And 
the  good  man  sighed  as  he  chuckled  forth  his 
praises. 

He  had  come  up  to  the  hill  in  company  with 
the  two  excellent  ladies  beside  him,  of  his  flock, 
to  make  a  little  visit  to  his  brethren  yonder,  to 
the  priests  who  were  still  here,  wrecks  of  the  once 
former  flourishing  monastery.  He  had  come  to 
see  them,  and  also  to  gaze  on  La  Merveille.  It 
was  a  good  five  years  since  he  had  looked  uj^on 
its  dungeons  and  its  lace-work.  But  after  all,  in 
his  secret  soul  of  souls,  he  had  longed  to  eat  of 
the  omelette.  Dieu !  how  often  during  those 
slow,  quiet  years  in  the  little  hamlet  yonder  on 
the  plain,  had  its  sweetness  and  lightness  mocked 
his  tongue  with  illusive  tasting  !  Little  wonder, 
therefore,  that  the  good  cure's  praises  were  sweet 
in  madame's  ear,  for  they  had  the  ring  of  truth — 
and  of  envy  !  And  madame  herself  was  only  mor- 
tal, for  what  woman  lives  but  feels  herself  iip- 
lifted  by  the  sense  of  having  found  favor  in  the 
eyes  of  her  priest  ? 

The  omelette  next  came  to  a  halt  between  the 
two  ladies  of  the  cure's  flock.  These  were  two 
bourgeoises  with  the  deprecating,  mistrustful  air 
peculiar  to  commonplace  the  world  over.  The 
walk  up  the  steej)  stairs  was  still  quickening  their 
breath — their  compressed  bosoms  were  straining 
the  hooks  of  their  holiday  woollen  bodices — cut 
when  they  were  of  slenderer  build.     Their  bon- 


THREE  NORMANDY  INNS.  367 

nets  proclaimeJ  the  antique  fashions  of  a  past 
decade :  but  the  edge  of  their  tongues  had  the 
keenness  that  comes  with  dailj'  i^ractice — than 
which  none  has  been  found  surer  than  adoration 
of  one's  pastor,  and  the  invigorating"  gossip  of 
small  towns. 

These  ladies  eyed  the  omelette  with  a  chilled 
glance.  Naturally,  thej*  could  not  see  as  much  to 
admire  in  Madame  Poulard  or  in  her  dish  as  did 
their  cure.  There  was  nothing  so  wonderful  after 
all  in  the  turning  of  eggs  over  a  hot  fire.  The 
omelette  ! — after  all,  an  omelette  is  an  omelette ! 
Some  are  better — some  are  worse  ;  one  has  one's 
luck  in  cooking  as  in  anj^thing  else.  They  had 
come  up  to  the  Mont  with  their  good  cure  to  see 
its  Avonders  and  for  a  days  outing  :  admiration  of 
other  women  had  not  been  anticipated  as  a  part  of 
the  programme.  Tiens — who  was  he  talking  to 
now ?  To  that  tall  blonde — a  foreig'ner,  a  joung 
girl — liens — who  knows  ? — possibly  an  American — 
those  Americans  are  terrible,  they  saj^ — bold,  im- 
modest, irreverent.  And  the  two  ladies'  necks 
were  screwed  about  their  over-tight  collars,  to 
give  Charm  the  verdict  of  their  disapproval. 

"Monsieur  le  Cure,  they  are  passing  you  the 
fish  !  "  cried  the  stouter,  more  aggressive  parish- 
ioner, who  boasted  a  truculent  mustache. 

"  Monsieur  le  Cure,  the  roast  is  at  your  elbow  !  " 
interpolated  the  second,  with  the  more  timid 
voice  of  a  second  in  action  :  this  protector  of  the 
good  cure  had  no  mustache,  but  her  face  was 
mercifully  protected  by  nature  from  a  too-disturb- 
ing combination  of  attractions,  by  being  pleuti- 


368  THREE  NORMANDY  INNS. 

fully  punctuated  with  moles  from  which  sprouted 
little  tufts  of  hair.  The  rain  of  these  ladies'  inter- 
ruption was  incessant ;  but  the  cure  was  a  man  of 
firm  mind  ;  their  efforts  to  recapture  his  attention 
were  futile.  For  the  music  of  Charms  foreign 
voice  was  in  his  ear. 

Worship  of  the  cloth  is  not  a  national,  it  is  a 
more  or  less  universal  cult,  I  take  it.  It  is  in 
the  blood  of  certain  women.  Opposite  the  two 
fussy,  jealous  bourgeoises,  were  others  as  importun- 
ate and  aggressive.  They  were  of  fair,  lean,  lank 
English  build,  with  the  shifting  eyes  and  the  per- 
sistent courage  which  come  to  certain  maidens  in 
whose  lives  there  is  but  one  fixed  and  certain  fact 
— that  of  haAdng  missed  the  matrimonial  market. 
The  shrine  of  their  devotions,  and  the  present 
citadel  of  their  attack,  was  seated  between  them — 
he  also  being  lean,  pale,  high-arched  of  brow, 
high  anglican  by  choice,  and  noticeably  weak  of 
chin,  in  whose  sable  garments  there  was  framed 
the  classical  clerical  tie. 

To  this  curate  Madame  was  now  passing  her 
dish.  She  still  wore  her  fine  sweet  smile,  but 
there  was  always  a  discriminating  reserve  in  its 
edge  when  she  touched  the  English  elbow.  The 
curate  took  his  spoonful  with  the  indifference  of  a 
man  who  had  never  known  the  religion  of  good 
eating.  He  put  up  his  one  eye-glass ;  it  swept 
Madame's  bending  face,  its  smile,  and  the  yellow 
glory  floating  beneath  both.  "  Ah — h — ya — as — 
an  omelette  !  "  The  glass  was  dropped ;  he  took  a 
meagre  spoonful  which  he  cut,  presently,  with  his 
knife.     He  turned  then  to  his  neighbors — to  both 


THREE  NORMANDY  INNS.  369 

liis   nei^jrlibors  !     They  had   been   talking-   of  the 
parish  church  on  the  hill. 

"Ah-h-h,  ya-as — lovely  porch — isn't  it  ?" 

"  Oh,  lovely — lovely  !  "  chorussed  the  two  maid- 
ens, with  assenting-  fervor.     "  Were  you  there  this 
morning  ? "  and  they  lifted  eyes  swimming-  with 
the  rapture  of  their  admiration, 
ia-as. 

"  Only  fancy — our  missing-  you  !  We  were  both 
there ! " 

"  De-ar  me !     Heally,  were  you  ?  " 

"  Could  you  go  this  afternoon  ?  I  do  want  so  to 
hear  your  criticism  of  my  drawing- — I'm  working 
on  the  arch  now." 

"  So  sorry — can't — possibly.  I  promised  what's 
his  name  to  go  over  to  Tombelaine,  don't  you 
know ! " 

"  Oh-h !     We  do  so  want  to  go  to  Tombelaine  !  " 

"Ah-h — do  you,  really  ?  One  ought  to  start  a 
little  before  the  tide  drops — they  tell  me !  "  and 
the  clerical  eye,  through  its  correctly  adjusted 
glass,  looked  into  those  four  isleading-  eyes  with 
no  hint  of  softening.  The  dish  that  was  the  mas- 
terpiece of  the  house,  meanwhile,  had  been  de- 
spatched as  if  it  were  so  much  leather. 

The  omelette  fared  no  better  with  the  brides, 
as  a  rule,  than  with  the  English  curates.  Such  a 
variety  of  brides  as  came  up  to  the  Mont !  You 
could  have  your  choice,  at  the  midday  meal,  of 
almost  any  nationality,  age,  or  color.  The  at- 
tempt among  these  bridal  couples  to  maintain  the 
distant  air  of  a  finished  indifference  only  made 
their  secret  the  more  open.     The  British  phlegm, 


370  THREE  NORMANDY  INNS. 

ou  such  a  journey,  did  not  always  serve  as  a  con- 
venient mask ;  the  flattering-,  timid  glance,  the  rii3- 
ple  of  the  tender  whispers,  and  the  furtive  touch- 
ing of  fingers  beneath  the  table,  made  even  these 
English  couples  a  part  of  the  great  human  marry- 
ing- family ;  their  superiority  to  their  fellows  would 
return,  doubtless,  when  the  honey  had  dried  out  of 
their  moon.  The  best  of  our  adventures  into  this 
tender  country  were  with  the  French  bridal  tour- 
ists ;  they  were  certain  to  be  delightfully  human. 
As  we  had  had  occasion  to  remark  before,  they 
were  off,  like  ourselves,  on  a  little  voyage  of  dis- 
covery ;  they  had  come  to  make  acquaintance  with 
the  being  to  whom  they  were  mated  for  life. 
Yarious  degrees  of  progress  could  be  read  in  the 
air  and  manner  of  the  hearty  young  bourgeoises 
and  their  j)aler  or  even  ruddier  partners,  as  they 
crunched  their  bread  or  sipped  their  thin  wine. 
Some  had  only  entered  as  yet  upon  the  path  of 
inquiry  ;  others  had  already  passed  the  mile-stone 
of  criticism ;  and  still  others  had  left  the  earth 
and  were  floating  in  full  azure  of  intoxication. 
Of  the  many  wedding-  parties  that  sat  down  to 
breakfast,  we  soon  made  the  commonplace  discov- 
ery that  the  more  jjlebeian  the  company,  the  more 
certain-orbed  a^Dpeared  to  be  the  promise  of  hap- 
piness. V 

Some  of  theV  peasant  weddings  were  noisy, 
boisterous  performances:  but  how  gay  were  the 
brides,  and  how  bloated  with  joy  the  hardy, 
knotty-handied  grooms !  These  peasant  wedding- 
g-uests  all  bore  a  striking  family  likeness :  they 
might  easily  ail  have  been  brothers  and  sisters, 


THREE  NORMANDY  INNS.  371 

whetlier  they  had  come  from  the  fields  near  Pon- 
torson,  or  Cancale,  or  Dol,  or  St.  Malo.  The  older 
the  women,  the  prettier  and  the  more  gossamer 
were  the  caps ;  but  the  young-er  maidens  were  al- 
ways delightful  to  look  upon,  such  was  the  rii^e 
vigor  of  their  frames,  and  the  liquid  softness  of 
eyes  that,  like  animals,  were  used  to  wide  sunlit 
fields  and  to  great  skies  full  of  light.  The  bride, 
in  her  brand-new  stuff  gown,  with  a  bonnet  that 
recalled  the  bridal  wreath  only  just  laid  aside,  was 
also  certain  to  be  of  a  general  universal  type — - 
with  the  broad  hips,  wide  waist,  muscular  limbs, 
and  the  melting  sweetness  of  lips  and  eyes  that 
only  abundant  health  and  a  rich  animalism  of  nat- 
ure bring  to  maidenhood. 

Madame  Poulard's  air  with  this,  her  world,  was 
as  full  of  tact  as  with  the  tourists.  Many  of  the 
older  women  would  give  her  the  Norman  kiss,  sol- 
emnly, as  if  the  salute  were  a  part  of  the  ceremony 
attendant  on  the  eating  of  a  wedding  breakfast  at 
Mont  St.  Michel.  There  would  be  a  three  times' 
clapping  of  the  wrinkled  or  the  ruddy  peasant 
cheeks  against  the  sides  of  Madame  Poulard's 
daintier,  more  delicately  modelled  face.  Then  all 
would  take  their  seats  noisily  at  table.  It  was 
Madame  Poulard  who  then  would  bring  us  news 
of  the  partj^ ;  at  the  end  of  a  fortnight,  Charm  and 
I  felt  ourselves  to  be  in  possession  of  the  hidden 
and  secret  reasons  for  all  the  marrying  that  had 
been  done  along  the  coast,  that  year.  "  Tiens,  ce 
n'est  pas  gai,  la  noce  !  I  must  learn  the  reason !  " 
Madame  would  then  flutter  over  the  bridal  break- 
fasters  as  a  delicate-plumaged  bird  hovers  over  a 


372  THREE  NORMANDY  INNS. 

mass  of  stuff  out  of  wliicli  it  hopes  to  make  a  re- 
spectable meal.  She  joresently  would  return  to 
murmur  in  a  Whisper,  "  it  is  a  mariage  de  raison. 
They,  the  bride  and  g-room,  love  elsewhere,  but 
they  are  marrying-  to  make  a  g-ood  partnership ; 
the}"  are  both  liair-dressers  at  Caen.  The}'  have 
bought  a  new  and  fine  shop  with  their  earnings." 
Or  it  would  be,  "  Look,  madame,  at  that  joJie  per- 
sonnc  ;  see  how  sad  she  looks.  She  is  in  love  with 
her  cousin  who  sits  op^Dosite,  but  the  groom  is  the 
old  one.  He  has  a  larg-e  farm  and  a  hundred  cows." 
To  look  on  such  a  trio  would  only  be  to  make  the 
acquaintance  anew  of  Sidouie  and  Eisler  and  of 
Froment  Jeune.  Such  brides  always  had  the  wan- 
dering gaze  of  those  in  search  of  fresh  horizons, 
or  of  those  looking  already  for  the  chance  of  es- 
cape. For  such  "unhappies,"  ces  malheureuses,  Ma- 
dame's  manner  had  an  added  softness  and  tender- 
ness :  she  passed  the  frosted  bridal  cake  as  if  it 
were  a  propitiatory  offering  to  the  God  of  Hymen. 
However  melancholy  the  bride,  the  cake  and  Ma- 
dames  caressing  smiles  wrought  ever  the  same 
spell;  for  an  instant,  at  least,  the  newly-made 
wife  was  in  love  with  matrimony  and  with  the 
cake,  accepting  the  latter  with  the  pleased  sur- 
prise of  one  who  realizes  that,  at  least,  on  one's 
wedding  day,  one  is  a  person  of  importance  :  that 
even  so  far  as  Mont  St.  Michel  the  news  of  their 
marriage  had  turned  the  ovens  into  a  baking  of 
wedding-cakes.  This  was  destined  to  be  the  first 
among  the  deceptions  that  greeted  such  brides  ;  for 
there  were  hundreds  of  such  cakes,  alas  !  kept  con- 
stantly on  hand.     They  were  the  same — a  glory  of 


THREE  NORMANDY  INNS.  373 

sugar-moulcliug's  and  devices  covering  a  mountain 
of  richness — that  were  sent  up  yearly  at  Christmas 
time  to  certain  mansard  studios  in  the  Latin  quar- 
ter, where  the  artist  recipients,  like  the  brides,  eat 
of  the  cake  as  did  Adam  when  partaking-  of  the 
apple,  believing  all  the  woman  told  them ! 

There  were  other  visitors  who  came  up  to  the 
Mont,  not  as  welcome  as  were  these  tourist  par- 
ties. 

One  morning,  as  Ave  looked  toward  Pontorson, 
a  small  black  cloud  appeared  to  be  advancing 
across  the  bay.  The  day  was  wind}^ ;  the  sky  was 
crowded  with  huge  white  mountains  —  round, 
luminous  clouds  that  moved  in  stately  sweeps. 
And  the  sea  was  the  color  one  loves  to  see  in  an 
earnest  woman's  eye,  the  dark-blue  sapphire  that 
turns  to  blue-gray.  This  was  a  setting  that  made 
that  particular  cloud,  making  such  slow  progress 
across  from  the  shore,  all  the  more  conspicuous. 
Gradually,  as  the  black  mass  neared  the  dike,  it 
began  to  break  and  separate  ;  and  we  saw  plainly 
enough  that  the  scattering  particles  were  human 
beings. 

It  was,  in  point  of  fact,  a  band  of  pilgrims ;  a 
peasant  xjilgrimage  was  coming  up  to  the  Mont.  In 
wagons,  in  market  carts,  in  char-a-bancs,  in  don- 
key-carts, on  the  backs  of  monster  Percherons — 
the  x^ilgrimage  moved  in  slow  processional  dig- 
nity across  the  dike.  Some  of  the  younger  black 
gowns  and  blue  blouses  attempted  to  walk  across 
over  the  sands :  we  could  see  the  girls  sitting 
down  on  the  edge  of  the  shore,  to  take  off  their 
shoes  and  stockings  and  to  tuck  up  their  thick 


374       THREE  NORMANDY  INNS. 

skirts.  Wlieii  they  finally  started  they  were  like 
mito  so  many  hug-e  cheeses  hoisted  on  stilts.  The 
bare  legs  plunged  boldly  forward,  keeping  ahead 
of  the  slower-moving  peasant-lads ;  the  girls' 
bravery  served  them  till  they  reached  the  fringe 
of  the  incoming  tide ;  not  until  their  knees  went 
under  water  did  they  forego  their  venture.  A 
higher  wave  came  in,  deluging  the  ones  farthest 
out ;  and  then  ensued  a  scampering-  toward  the 
dike  and  a  climbing-  tip  of  the  stone  embank- 
ment. The  old  route  across  the  sands,  that  had 
been  the  only  one  known  to  kings  and  barons, 
was  not  good  enough  for  a  modern  Norman  peas- 
ant. The  religion  of  personal  comfort  has  spread 
even  as  far  as  the  fields. 

At  the  entrance  gate  a  tremendous  hubbub  and 
noise  announced  the  arrival  of  the  pilgrimage. 
Wagons,  carts,  horses,  and  peasants  were  crowded 
together  as  onlj^  such  a  throng  is  mixed  in  pil- 
g'rimages,  wars,  and  fairs.  Women  were  taking 
down  hoods,  unharnessing  the  horses,  fitting  slats 
into  outsides  of  wagons,  rolling  up  blankets,  un- 
packing from  the  char-a-bancs  cooking-  utensils, 
children,  grain-bags,  long-  columns  of  bread,  and 
hard-boiled  eggs.  For  the  women,  darting  hither 
and  thither  in  their  blue  jDctticoats,  their  i^ink 
and  red  kerchiefs,  and  the  stiff  white  Norman  caps, 
were  doing  all  the  work.  The  men  appeared  to 
be  decorative  adjuncts,  inlying  the  Norman's  gift 
of  tongue  across  wagon-wheels  and  over  the  back 
of  their  vigorous  wives  and  daug-hters.  For  them 
the  battle  of  the  day  was  over  ;  the  hour  of  relax- 
ation had  come.     The  bargains   they  had  made 


THREE  NORMANDT  INNS.  375 

along  the  route  were  now  to  be  rehearsed,  sea- 
soned with  a  joke. 

"  Allons,  toi,  on  ne  fait  2^(18  de  la  monnaie  blanche 
comme  ga  !  " 

"  Je  t'ai  qffert  huit  sous,  tu  sais,  lapin  /  " 

"  Farceur,  va-fen " 

"  Come,  are  you  never  going"  to  have  done  fool- 
ing ?  "  cried  a  tan-colored,  wide-hipjied  peasant  to 
her  husband,  who  was  lounging  against  the  wagon 
pole,  sporting  a  sprig  of  gentian  pinned  to  his 
blouse.  He  was  fat  and  handsome ;  and  his  eye 
proclaimed,  as  he  was  making  it  do  heavy  work  at 
long  range  at  a  cluster  of  girls  descending  from 
an  antique  gig,  that  the  knowledge  of  the  same 
was  known  unto  him. 

"  That's  right,  growl  ahead,  thou,  tes  heaux  jours 
sont  passes,  but  for  me  I'amour,  I'amour — que  c'est 
gai,  que  c'est  frais  !"  he  half  sung,  half  shouted. 

The  moving  mass  of  color,  the  Breton  caps,  and 
the  Norman  faces,  the  gold  crosses  that  fell  from 
dented  bead  necklaces,  the  worn  hooped  earrings, 
the  clean  bodices  and  home-spun  skirts,  streamed 
out  past  our  windows  as  we  looked  down  upon 
them.  How  pretty  were  some  of  the  faces,  of  the 
younger  women  particularly !  and  with  what  gay 
spirits  they  were  beginning  their  day  !  It  had 
begun  the  night  before,  almost;  many  of  the 
carts  had  been  driven  in  from  the  forests  beyond 
Avranches  ;  some  of  the  Brittany  groups  had  start- 
ed the  day  before.  But  what  can  quench  the  foun- 
tain of  French  vivacity  ?  To  see  one's  world,  surely, 
there  is  nothing  in  that  to  tire  one ;  it  only  excites 
and  exhilarates ;  and  so  a  fair  or  market  day,  and 


376  THREE  NORMANDY  INNS. 

above  all  a  pilgrima.sfe,  are  better  than  balls,  since 
they  come  more  regularly ;  they  are  the  peasant's 
opera,  his  Piccadilly  and  Broadway,  club,  drawing- 
room.  Exchange,  and  parade,  all  in  one. 

A  half -hour  after  a  landing  of  the  pilgrims  at 
the  outer  gates  of  the  fortifications,  the  hill  was 
swarming  with  them.  The  single  street  of  the 
town  was  choked  with  the  black  gowns  and  the 
cobalt-blue  blouses.  Before  these  latter  took  a 
turn  at  their  devotions  they  did  homage  to  Bac- 
chus. Crowds  of  peasants  were  to  be  seen  seated 
about  the  long,  narrow  inn-tables,  lifting  huge 
pewter  tankards  to  bristling  beards.  Some  of  these 
taverns  were  the  same  that  had  fed  and  sheltered 
bands  of  i)ilgrims  that  are  now  mere  handfuls  of 
dust  in  country  churchyards.  Those  sixteenth  cen- 
tury pilgrims,  how  many  of  them,  had  found  this 
same  arched  doorway  of  La  Licorne  as  cool  as  the 
shade  of  great  trees  after  the  long  hot  climb  up 
to  the  hill !  What  a  j)leasant  face  has  the  tim 
bered  facade  of  the  Tete  d'Or,  and  the  Mouton 
Blanc,  been  to  the  weary-limbed  !  and  how  sweet 
to  the  dead  lips  has  been  the  first  taste  of  the  acid 
cider ! 

Other  aspects  of  the  hill,  on  this  day  of  the 
pilgrimage,  made  those  older  dead-and-gone  bands 
of  pilgrims  astonishingly  real.  On  the  tops  of 
bastions,  in  the  clefts  of  the  rocks,  beneath  the 
glorious  walls  of  La  Merveille,  or  perilously  lodged 
on  the  crumbling  cornice  of  a  tourelle,  numerous 
rude  altars  had  been  hastily  erected.  The  ciTide 
blues  and  scarlets  of  banners  were  fluttering,  like 
so  many  pennants,  in  the  light  breeze.     Beneath 


THREE  NORMANDY  INNS.  37T 

the  improvised  altar-roofs — strips  of  gay  cloth 
stretched  across  poles  stuck  into  the  gi'ouud — were 
groups  not  often  seen  in  these  less  fervent  centu- 
ries. High  up,  mounted  on  the  natural  piilpit 
formed  of  a  bit  of  rock,  with  the  rude  altar  before 
him,  with  its  bit  of  scarlet  cloth  covered  with  cheap 
lace,  stood  or  knelt  the  priest.  Against  the  wide 
blue  of  the  open  heaven  his  figure  took  on  an  im- 
posing sialendor  of  mien  and  an  unmodem  impres- 
siveness  of  action.  Beneath  him  knelt,  with  bowed 
heads,  the  groups  of  the  peasant-pilgrims ;  the 
women,  with  murmuring  lips  and  clasjDed  hands, 
their  strong,  deeply-seamed  faces  outlined,  with 
the  iDrecision  of  a  Francesco  painting,  against  the 
gray  background  of  a  giant  mass  of  wall,  or  the 
amazing  breadth  of  a  vast  sea-view ;  children, 
squat  and  chubby,  with  bulging  cheeks  starting 
from  the  close-fitting  French  horoiei ;  and  the  peas- 
ant-farmers, mostly  of  the  older  varieties,  whose 
stiffened  or  rheumatic  knees  and  knotty  hands 
made  their  kneeling  real  acts  of  devotional  zeal. 
There  were  a  dozen  such  altars  and  groups  scat- 
tered over  the  perpendicular  slant  of  the  hill. 
The  singing  of  the  choir-boys,  rising  like  skylark 
notes  into  the  clear  space  of  heaven,  would  be 
floating  from  one  rocky-nested  chapel,  while  be- 
low, in  the  one  beneath  which  we,  for  a  moment, 
were  resting,  there  would  be  the  groaning  murmur 
of  the  peasant  groups  in  prayer. 

All  day  little  processions  were  going  up  and 
down  the  steep  stone  steps  that  lead  from  forti- 
fied rock  to  parish  church,  and  from  the  town  to 
the  abbatial  gateway.     The  banners  and  the  choir- 


378  THREE  NORMANDT  INNS. 

boys,  the  priests  in  their  embroideries  and  lace, 
the  peasants  in  cap  and  blouse,  were  incessantly 
mounting'  and  descending,  standing  on  rock  edges, 
caught  for  an  instant  between  a  medley  of  perpen- 
dicular roofs,  of  giant  gateways,  and  a  long  per- 
spective of  fortified  walls,  only  to  be  lost  in  the 
curve  of  a  bastion,  or  a  fl3'ing  buttress,  that,  in 
their  turn,  would  be  found  melting  into  a  distant 
sea- view. 

All  the  hours  of  a  pilgrimage,  we  discovered,  were 
not  given  to  prayer :  nor  yet  is  an  incessant  bow- 
ing at  the  shrine  of  St.  Michel  the  sole  other  di- 
version in  a  true  pilgrims  round  of  pious  devo- 
tions. Later  on  in  this  eventful  day,  we  stumbled 
on  a  somewhat  startling  variation  to  the  peniten- 
tial order  of  the  performances.  In  a  side  alley, 
beneath  a  friendly  overhanging  rock  and  two  pro- 
tecting roof-eaves,  an  acrobat  was  making  her  pro- 
fessional toilet.  When  she  emerged  to  lay  a  worn 
strip  of  carpet  on  the  rough  cobbles  of  the  street, 
she  presented  a  pathetic  figure  in  the  gold  of  the 
afternoon  sun.  She  was  old  and  wrinkled ;  the 
rouge  would  no  longer  stick  to  the  sunken  cheeks : 
the  wrinkles  were  become  clefts ;  the  shrunken 
but  still  muscular  legs  were  clad  in  a  pair  of  tights, 
a  very  caricature  of  the  silken  webs  that  must  once 
have  encased  the  poor  old  creatiu'e's  limbs,  for 
these  were  knitted  of  the  coarse  thread  the  com- 
monest j)easant  uses  for  the  rough  field  stocking. 
Over  these  obviously"  home-made  coverings  was  a 
single  skirt  of  azure  tarlatan,  plentifully  be- 
sprinkled with  golden  stars.  The  gossamer  skirt 
and  its  spangles  turned,  for  their  debut,  a  somer- 


THREE  NORMANDY  INNS.  379 

sault  in  tlie  air,  and  the  knitted  tig-hts  took  strange 
leaps  from  the  bars  of  a  rude  trapeze.  The  groups 
of  peasants  were  soon  thicker  about  this  spectacle 
than  they  had  gathered  about  the  improvised  al- 
tars. All  the  men  who  had  passed  the  day  in  the 
taverns  came  out  at  the  sound  of  the  hoarse  cracked 
voice  of  the  aged  acrobat.  As  she  hurled  her  poor 
old  twisted  shape  from  swinging"  bar  to  pole,  she 
cried  aloud,  "Ah,  messieurs,  essayez  Qa  seulement !" 
The  men's  hands,  when  she  had  landed  on  her  feet 
after  an  uncommonly  venturous  whirl  of  the  blue 
skirts  in  mid-air,  came  out  of  their  deep  pock- 
ets ;  but  they  seasoned  their  ajjplause  with  coarse 
jokes  which  they  flung-,  with  a  cruel  relish,  into 
the  pitifully-aged  face.  A  cracked  accordion  and  a 
jingling  tambourine  were  played  by  two  hardened- 
looking  ruffians,  seated  on  tlieir  heels  beneath  a 
window — a  discordant  music  that  could  not  drown 
the  noise  of  the  peasants'  derisive  laughter.  But 
the  latter's  i^ennies  rattled  a  louder  jingle  into  the 
ancient  acrobat's  tin  cup  than  it  had  into  the 
priest's  green-netted  contribution-box. 

"  No,  madame,  as  for  us,  we  do  not  care  for  pil- 
grimages," was  Madame  Poulard's  verdict  on  such 
survivals  of  past  religious  enthusiasms.  And  she 
seasoned  her  comments  with  an  enlightening 
shrug.  "AVe  see  too  well  how  they  end.  The 
men  go  home  dead  drunk,  the  women  are  drop- 
ping with  fatigue,  et  les  enfants  meme  se  grisent  de 
cidre  !  No ;  pilgrimages  are  bad  for  everyone. 
The  priests  should  not  allow  them." 

This  was  at  the  end  of  the  day,  after  the  black 
and  blue  swarm  had  passed,  a  weary,  uncertain- 


380  THREE  NORMANDY  INNS. 

footed  tlirougr,  down  the  loug-  street,  to  take  its 
departure  along  the  dike.  At  the  very  end  of  the 
straggling-  procession  came  the  three  acrobats ; 
they  had  begged,  or  bought,  a  drive  across  the 
dike  from  some  of  the  pilgrims.  The  lady  of  the 
knitted  tights,  in  her  conventional  skirts  and  wom- 
anly fichu,  was  scarcely  distinguishable  from  the 
peasant  women  who  eyed  her  askance  ;  though  de- 
cently garbed  now,  they  looked  at  her  as  if  she 
were  some  plague  or  vice  talking  in  their  midst. 

The  verdict  of  Madame  Poulard  seemed  to  be 
the  verdict  of  all  Mont  St.  Michel.  The  whole 
town  was  abroad  that  evening,  on  its  doorsteps 
and  in  its  garden-beds,  repairing  the  ravages  com- 
mitted by  the  band  of  the  pilgrims.  Never  had 
the  town,  as  a  town,  been  so  dirty;  never  had  the 
street  presented  so  shocking  a  collection  of  abom- 
inations ;  never  had  fiowers  and  shrubs  been  so 
mercilessly  robbed  and  lilundered — these  were  the 
comments  that  flowed  as  freely  as  the  water  that 
was  rained  over  the  dusty  cobbles,  thick  Avith  re- 
fuse of  luncheon  and  the  shreds  of  torn  skirts  and 
of  children's  socks. 

At  any  hour  of  the  day,  of  even  an  ordinar}^  un- 
eventful day,  to  take  a  walk  in  the  town  is  to 
encounter  a  surprise  at  every  turning.  AYoiild 
you  call  it  a  toAvn — this  one  straggling  street  that 
begins  in  a  King's  gateway  and  ends — ah,  that  is 
the  point,  just  where  does  it  end  ?  I,  for  one,  was 
never  once  quite  certain  at  just  what  precise  point 
this  one  single  Mont  St.  Michel  street  stopped — 
lost  itself,  in  a  word,  and  became  something  else. 
That  was  also  true  of  so  many  other  things  on  the 


THREE  NORMANDY  INNS.  381 

hill :  all  objects  had  such  an  astonishing-  way  of 
suddenly  becoming  something  else.  A  house,  for 
example,  that  you  had  passed  on  your  upward 
walk,  had  a  beguiling  air  of  sincerity.  It  had  its 
cellar  beneath  the  street  front  like  any  other 
properly  built  house  ;  it  continued  its  g-rowth  up- 
ward,  showing"  the  commonplace  features  of  a  door, 
of  so  many  windows — queerly  spaced,  and  of  an 
amazing  variety  of  shapes,  but  still  unmistakably 
windows.  Then,  assured  of  so  much  integrity  of 
character,  you  looked  to  see  the  roof  covering  the 
house,  and  instead — like  the  eg"gs  in  a  Chinese 
juggler's  fingers,  that  are  turned  in  a  jifi'y  into  a 
growing-  iplant — behold  the  roof  miraculously 
transformed  into  a  g-arden,  or  lost  in  a  rampart, 
or,  with  quite  shameless  effrontery,  playing-  de- 
serter, and  serving  as  the  basement  of  another  and 
still  fairer  dwelling.  That  was  a  samj^le  of  the 
way  all  things  played  you  the  trick  of  surprise  on 
this  hill.  Stairways  began  on  the  cobbles  of  the 
streets,  only  to  lose  themselves  in  a  side  wall ;  a 
turn  on  the  ramparts  would  land  you  straight  into 
the  privacy  of  a  St.  Michelese  interior,  with  an  en- 
tire household,  perchance,  at  the  mercy  of  your 
eye,  taken  at  the  mean  disadvantage  of  morning- 
dishabille.  As  for  doors  that  flew  open  where  you 
looked  to  find  a  bastion;  or  a  school -house  that 
fiuug  all  the  Michelese  voyous  over  the  tops  of  the 
ramparts  at  play -time ;  or  of  fishwives  that  sprung-, 
as  full-armed  in  their  kit  as  Minerva  from  her  sire's 
brows,  from  the  very  forehead  of  fortified  places  ; 
or  of  beds  and  settees  and  wardrobes  (surely  no 
Michelese    has   ever   been  able,   successfully,  to 


382  THREE  NORMANDY  INNS. 

maintain  in  secret  the  ghost  of  a  family  skele- 
ton !)  into  which  you  were  innocently  precipitated 
on  your  way  to  discover  the  minutest  of  all  ceme- 
teries— these  were  all  commonplace  occurrences 
once  your  foot  was  set  on  this  Hill  of  Surprises. 

There  are  two  roads  that  lead  one  to  the  noble 
mass  of  building's  crowning-  the  hill.  One  may 
choose  the  narrow  street  with  its  moss-grown 
steps,  its  curves,  and  turns  ;  or  one  may  have  the 
broader  path  along-  the  ramparts,  with  its  glori- 
ous outlook  over  land  and  sea.  Whichever  ap- 
proach one  chooses,  one  passes  at  last  beneath  the 
^reat  doors  of  the  Barbican. 

Three  times  did  the  vision  of  St.  Michel  appear 
to  Saint  Aubert,  in  his  dream,  commanding  the 
latter  to  erect  a  church  on  the  heights  of  Mont 
St.  Michel  to  his  honor.  How  many  a  time  must 
the  modern  pilgrim  traverse  the  stupendous  mass 
that  has  grown  out  of  that  command  before  he  is 
quite  certain  that  the  splendor  of  Mont  St.  Michel 
is  real,  and  not  a  part  of  a  dream!  Whether  one 
enters  through  the  dark  magnificence  of  the  great 
portals  of  the  Chatelet ;  whether  one  mounts  the 
fortified  stairway,  passing  into  the  Salle  des 
Gardes,  passing  onward  from  dungeon  to  fortified 
bridge,to  gain  the  abbatial  residence ;  whether  one 
leaves  the  vaulted  splendor  of  oratories  for  aerial 
I)assage-ways,  only  to  emerge  beneath  the  majestic 
roof  of  the  Cathedral — that  marvel  of  the  early  Nor- 
man, ending  in  the  Gothic  choir  of  the  fifteenth 
century;  or,  as  one  penetrates  into  the  gloom  of 
the  mighty  dungeons  where  heroes  and  the  broth- 
ers of  kings,  and  saints  and  scientists  have  died 


THREE  NORMANDY  INNS.  383 

their  long"  death — as  one  gropes  through  the  black 
night  of  the  Cryjpt,  where  a  faint,  mysterious  giint 
of  light  falls  aslant  the  mystical  face  of  the  Black 
Virgin;  as  one  climbs  to  the  light  beneath  the 
ogive  arches  of  the  Aumonerie,  through  the  wide- 
lit  aisles  of  the  Salle  des  Chevaliers,  jDast  the 
slender  Gothic  columns  of  the  Refectory,  up  at 
last  to  the  crowning-  glory  of  all  the  glories  of  La 
Merveille,  to  the  exquisitely  beautiful  colonnades 
of  the  open  Cloister — the  impressions  and  emo- 
tions excited  by  these  ecclesiastical  and  mili- 
tary masterpieces  are  ever  the  same,  however 
many  times  one  may  pass  them  in  review.  A 
charm,  indefinable,  but  replete  with  subtle  attrac- 
tions, lurks  in  every  one  of  these  dungeons.  The 
g-reat  halls  have  a  power  to  make  one  retraverse 
their  space,  I  have  yet  to  find  under  other 
vaulted  chambers.  The  g-rass  that  is  set,  like  a 
green  jewel,  in  the  arabesques  of  the  Cloister,  is  a 
bit  of  g-reensward  the  feet  press  with  a  different 
tread  to  that  which  skips  lightly  over  other  strijDS 
of  turf.  And  the  world,  that  one  looks  out  upon 
through  prison  bars,  that  is  so  gloriously  arched 
in  the  arm  of  a  flying  buttress,  or  that  lies  prone 
at  your  feet  from  the  dizzy  heights  of  the  rock 
clefts,  is  not  the  world  in  which  you,  daily,  do 
your  iDetty  stretch  of  toil,  in  which  you  laugh  and 
ache,  sorrow,  sigh,  and  g'o  down  to  your  grave 
in.  The  secret  of  this  deep  attraction  may  lie 
in  the  fact  of  one's  being  in  a  world  that  is  built 
on  a  height.  Much,  doubtless,  of  the  charm  lies, 
also,  in  the  reminders  of  all  the  human  life  that, 
since  the  early  dawn  of  history,  has  peoijled  this 


384  THREE  NORMANDY  INNS. 

hill.  One  has  the  sense  of  living-  at  tremendously 
high  mental  pressure ;  of  impressions,  emotions, 
sensations  crowding'  upon  the  mind;  of  one's 
whole  meagre  outfit  of  memory,  of  poetic  equip- 
ment, and  of  imaginative  furnishing,  being  un- 
equal to  the  demand  made  by  even  the  most  hur- 
ried tour  of  the  great  buildings,  or  the  most 
flitting  review  of  the  noble  massing  of  the  clouds 
and  the  hilly  seas. 

The  very  emptiness  and  desolation  of  all  the 
buildings  on  the  hill  help  to  accentuate  their 
splendor.  The  stage  is  magnificently  set ;  the 
curtain,  even,  is  lifted.  One  waits  for  the  coming 
on  of  kingly  shapes,  for  the  pomp  of  trumpets, 
for  the  pattering  of  a  mighty  host.  But,  behold, 
all  is  still.  And  one  sits  and  sees  only  a  shadowy 
company  pass  and  repass  across  that  glorious 
mise-en-sccne. 

For,  in  a  certain  sense,  I  know  no  other  mediaeval 
mass  of  buildings  as  peox)led  as  are  these.  The 
dead  shapes  seem  to  fill  the  vast  halls.  The  Salle 
des  Chevaliers  is  crowded,  daily,  with  a  brilliant 
gathering  of  knights,  who  sweej)  the  trains  of  their 
white  damask  mantles,  edged  with  ermine,  over 
the  dulled  marble  of  the  floor ;  two  by  two  they 
enter  the  hall ;  the  golden  shells  on  their  mantles 
make  the  eyes  blink,  as  the  groups  gather  about 
the  great  chimneys,  or  wander  through  the  col- 
umn-broken space.  Behind  this  dazzling  cortege, 
up  the  steep  steps  of  the  narrow  street,  swarm 
other  groups — the  mediaeval  pilgrim  host  that 
rushes  into  the  cathedi'al  aisles,  and  that  climbs 
the  rami)arts  to  watch  the  stately  procession  as  it 


THREE  NORMANDY  INNS.  385 

makes  its  way  toward  the  church  portals.  There 
are  still  other  figures  that  fill  every  empty  niche 
and  deserted  watch-tower.  Through  the  lancet 
windows  of  the  abbatial  gateways  the  yeomanry 
of  the  vassal  villages  are  peering  ;  it  is  the  weary 
time  of  the  Hundred  Years'  War,  and  all  France 
is  watching,  through  sentry  windows,  for  the  ap- 
proach of  her  dread  enemy.  On  the  shifting 
sands  below,  as  on  brass,  how  indelibly  fixed  are 
the  names  of  the  hundred  and  twenty-nine  knights 
whose  courage  drove,  step  by  step,  over  that  treach- 
erous surface,  the  English  invaders  back  to  their 
island  strongholds.  Will  you  have  a  less  stormy 
and  belligerent  company  to  people  the  hill  ?  In 
the  quieter  days  of  the  fourteenth  century,  on 
any  bright  afternoon,  you  could  have  sat  beside 
some  friendly  artist-monk,  and  watched  him 
color  and  embellish  those  wondrous  missals  that 
made  the  manuscripts  of  the  Brothers  famous 
throughout  France.  Earlier  yet,  in  those  naive 
centuries,  Robert  de  Torigny,  that  "  bouclie  des 
Papes,"  would  doubtless  have  discoursed  to  you 
on  any  subject  dear  to  this  "counsellor  of  kings  " — 
on  books,  or  architecture,  or  the  science  of  fortifi- 
cations, or  on  the  theology  of  Lanfranc ;  from  the 
helmeted  locks  of  Rollon  to  the  veiled  tresses  of 
the  lovely  Tiphaine  Raguenel,  Duguesclin's  wife ; 
from  the  ghastly  rat-eaten  body  of  the  Dutch 
journalist,  who  offended  that  tyrant  King,  Louis 
XIV.,  to  the  Revolutionary  heroes,  as  pitilessly 
doomed  to  an  odious  death  under  the  gentle  Louis 
Philippe  —  there  is  no  shape  or  figure  in  French 
history  which  cannot  be  summoned  at  will  to  refill 


386  THREE  NORMANDY  INNS. 

either  a  dungeon  or  a  jialace  chamber  at  Mont  St. 
Michel. 

Even  in  these,  our  modern  days,  one  finds 
stvange  relics  of  past  fashions  in  thought  and 
opinion.  The  various  political,  religious,  and 
ethical  forms  of  belief  to  be  met  with  in  a  fort- 
night's sojourn  on  the  hill,  give  one  a  sense  of 
having  j)assed  in  review  a  very  complete  gallery 
of  ancient  and  modern  portraits  of  men's  minds. 
In  time  one  learns  to  traverse  even  a  dozen  or 
more  centuries  with  ease.  To  be  in  the  dawn  of 
the  eleventh  century  in  the  morning  ;  at  high  noon 
to  be  in  the  flood-tide  of  the  fifteenth  ;  and,  as  the 
sun  dipped,  to  hear  the  last  word  of  our  own  dying 
century — such  were  the  flights  across  the  abysmal 
depths  of  time  Charm  and  I  took  again  and  again. 

One  of  our  chosen  haunts  was  in  a  certain  watch- 
tower.  From  its  top  wall,  the  loveliest  prospect  of 
Mont  St.  Michel  was  to  be  enjoyed.  Day  after  day 
and  sunset  after  sunset,  we  sat  out  the  hours  there. 
Again  and  again  the  world,  as  it  passed,  came  and 
took  its  seat  beside  us.  Pilgrims  of  the  devout  and 
ardent  type  would  stoi3,  perchance,  would  jDrofter 
a  preliminary  greeting,  would  next  take  their  seat 
along  the  parapet,  and,  quite  unconsciously,  would 
end  by  sitting  for  their  portrait.  One  such  sitter, 
I  remember,  was  clad  in  carmine  crepe  shawl ;  she 
was  bonneted  in  the  shape  of  a  long-ago  decade. 
She  had  climbed  the  hill  in  the  morning  before 
dawn,  she  said  ;  she  had  knelt  in  prayer  as  the  sun 
rose.  For  hers  was  a  pilgrimage  made  in  fulfilment 
of  a  vow.  St.  Michel  had  granted  her  wish,  and  she 
in  return  had  brought  her  prayers  to  his  shrine. 


THREE  NORMANDY  INNS.  387 

"All,  mesclames !  how  g-ood  is  God!  How 
greatly  He  rewards  a  little  self-sacrifice.  Figure 
to  yourselves  the  Mout  in  the  early  mists,  with  the 
sun  rising  out  of  the  sea  and  the  hills.  I  was  on 
my  knees,  up  there.  I  had  eaten  nothing  since 
yesterday  at  noon.  I  was  full  of  the  Holy  Ghost. 
When  the  sun  broke  at  last,  it  was  God  Himself 
in  all  His  glory  come  down  to  earth  !  The  whole 
earth  seemed  to  be  listening — pretait  VoreiUe — and 
with  the  great  stillness,  and  the  sea,  and  the 
light  breaking  everywhere,  it  was  as  if  I  were  be- 
ing taken  straight  up  into  Paradise.  Saint  Michel 
himself  must  have  been  supporting  me." 

The  carmine  crepe  shawl  covered  a  poet,  you 
see,  as  well  as  a  devotee. 

Up  yonder,  in  the  little  shops  and  stalls  tucked 
away  within  the  walls  of  the  Barbican,  a  lively 
traffic,  for  many  a  century  now,  has  been  going  on 
in  relics  and  7->/o?y^&.s  de  pelerinage.  Some  of  these 
mediaeval  impressions  have  been  unearthed  in 
strange  localities,  in  the  bed  of  the  Seine,  as  far 
away  as  Paris.  Pude  and  archaic  are  many  of 
these  early  essays  in  the  sculptor's  art.  But  they 
preserve  for  us,  in  quaint  intensity,  the  fervor  of 
adoration  which  possessed  that  earlier,  more  de- 
vout time  and  period.  On  the  mind  of  this  nine- 
teenth century  pilgrim,  the  same  lovely  old  forms 
of  belief  and  superstition  were  imprinted  as  are 
still  to  be  seen  in  some  of  those  winged  figures  of 
St.  Michel,  with  feet  securely  set  on  the  back  of 
the  terrible  dragon,  staring,  with  triumphant  g"aze, 
through  stony  or  leaden  eyes. 

On  the  evening  of  the  jjilgrimage  our  friend, 


388  THREE  NORMANDY  INNS. 

the  Parisian,  joined  lis  on  our  high  percli.  The 
Mont  seemed  strangely  qniet  after  the  noise  and 
confusion  the  peasants  had  brought  in  their  train. 
The  Parisian,  like  ourselves,  had  been  glad  to  es- 
cape into  the  upper  heights  of  the  wide  air,  after 
the  bustle  and  hurry  of  the  daj^  at  our  inn. 

"  You  permit  me,  mesdames  1 "  He  had  lighted 
his  after-dinner  cigar ;  he  went  on  iDuffing,  having 
gained  our  consent.  He  curled  a  leg  comfortably 
about  the  railings  of  a  low  bridge  connecting  a 
house  that  sprang  out  of  a  rock,  with  the  rampart. 
Below,  there  was  a  clean  drop  of  a  few  hundred 
feet,  more  or  less.  In  spite  of  the  glories  of  a 
spectacular  sunset,  yielding  ceaseless  changes  and 
transformations  of  cloud  and  sea  tones,  the  words 
of  Madame  Poulard  alone  had  power  to  possess 
our  companion.  She  had  uttered  her  protest 
against  the  X3ilgrimage,  as  she  had  swept  the 
Parisian's  jyousse-cafe  from  his  elbow.  He  took  up 
the  conversation  where  it  had  been  droi:)ped. 

"It  is  amusing  to  hear  Madame  Poulard  talk 
of  the  priests  stopping  the  pilgrimages !  The 
priests  ?  Whj^,  that's  all  they  have  left  them  to 
live  upon  now.  These  peasants'  are  the  only 
pockets  in  which  they  can  fumble  nowadays." 

"  All  the  same,  one  can't  help  being  grateful  to 
those  peasants,"  retorted  Charm.  "  Thej^  are  the 
only  creatures  who  have  made  these  things  seem 
to  have  any  meaning.  How  dead  it  all  seems ! 
The  abbey,  the  cloisters,  the  old  prisons,  the 
fortifications — it  is  like  wandering  through  a 
splendid  tomb ! " 

"  Yes,  as  the  cure  said  yesterday,  '  Vdme  n'y  est 


THREE  NORMANDY  INNS.  389 

plus,' — since  the  priests  liave  been  dislodged,  it  is 
the  house  of  the  dead." 

"  The  priests  " — ^the  Parisian  snorted  at  the  very- 
sound  of  the  word — "  thej"  have  only  themselves 
to  blame.  They  would  have  been  here  still,  if 
they  had  not  so  abused  their  power." 

"  How  did  they  abuse  it  ?  "  Charm  asked. 

"  In  every  possible  way.  I  am,  myself,  not  of 
the  country.  But  my  brother  was  stationed  here 
for  some  years,  when  the  Mont  was  garrisoned. 
The  priests  were  in  full  possession  then,  and  they 
conducted  a  lively  commerce,  mademoiselle.  The 
Mont  was  turned  into  a  show — to  see  it  or  any 
part  of  it,  everyone  had  to  i^ay  toll.  On  the  great 
fete-days,  when  St.  Michel  wore  his  crown,  the 
gold  ran  like  water  into  the  monks'  treasury.  It 
was  still  then  a  fashionable  religious  fad  to  have 
a  mass  said  for  one's  dead,  out  here  among  the 
clouds  and  the  sea.  Well,  try  to  imagine  fifty 
masses  all  dumped  on  the  altar  together ;  that  is, 
one  mass  wovild  be  scrambled  through,  no  names 
would  be  mentioned,  no  one  save  Je  bon  Dieu  him- 
self knew  for  whom  it  was  being  said ;  but  fifty  or 
more  believed  they  had  bought  it,  since  they  had 
paid  for  it.  And  the  priests  laughed  in  their 
sleeves,  and  then  sat  down,  comfortably,  to  count 
the  gold.  Ah,  mesdames,  those  were,  literally,  the 
golden  days  of  the  priesthood !  "WTiat  with  the 
pilgrimages,  and  the  sale  of  relics,  and  les  benefices 
— together  with  the  charges  for  seeing  the  won- 
ders of  the  Mont — what  a  trade  they  did !  It  is 
only  the  Jews,  who,  in  their  turn,  now  own  us,  up 
in  Paris,  who  can  equal  the  priests  as  commercial 


390  THREE  NORMANDY  INNS. 

geniuses  !  "  Aud  our  pessimistic  Parisian,  during 
the  next  half-hour,  gave  us  a  prophetic  picture 
of  the  approaching'  ruin  of  France,  brought  about 
by  the  genius  for  phmder  and  organization  that  is 
given  to  the  son?  of  Moses. 

Following  tlio'  Parisian,  a  figure,  bent  and 
twisted,  opened  a  door  in  a  side-wall,  and  took 
his  seat  beside  us.  One  became  used,  in  time, 
to  these  sudden  appearances ;  to  vanish  doAMi  a 
chimney,  or  to  emerge  from  tlie  womb  of  a  rock, 
or  to  come  up  from  the  bowels  of  what  earth  there 
was  to  be  found — all  such  exits  and  entrances  be- 
came as  common^Dlace  as  all  the  other  extraordi- 
nary phases  of  one's  life  on  the  hill.  This  particu- 
lar shape  had  emerged  from  a  hut,  carved,  literally, 
out  of  the  side  of  the  rock ;  but,  for  a  hut,  it  was 
amazingly  snug — as  we  could  see  for  ourselves; 
for  the  venerable  shape  hospitably  opened  the 
low  wooden  door,  that  we  might  see  how  much  of 
a  home  could  be  made  out  of  the  side  of  a  rock. 
Only,  when  one  had  been  used  to  a  guard-room, 
and  to  great  and  little  dungeons,  and  to  a  rattling 
of  keys  along  dark  corridors,  a  hut,  and  the  blaze 
of  the  noon  sun,  were  trjdng  things  to  endure,  as 
the  shape,  with  a  shrug,  gave  us  to  understand. 

"  You  see,  mesdames,  I  was  jailor  here,  years 
ago,  when  all  La  Merveille  was  a  prison.  Ah! 
those  were  great  days  for  the  Mont !  There  were 
soldiers  and  officers  who  came  up  to  look  at  the 
soldiers,  and  the  soldiers — it  was  their  biTsiness 
to  look  after  the  prisoners.  The  Emperor  himself 
came  here  once — I  saAv  him.  What  a  sight ! — Dieu ! 
all  the  monks  and  priests  and  nuns,  and  the  arch- 


THREE  NORMANDY  INNS.  391 

bisliop  himself  were  out.  What  banners  and 
crosses  and  flag-s !  The  cannon  was  like  a  great 
thunder — and  the  greve  was  red  with  soldiers. 
Ah,  those  were  days!  Dieu — why  couldn't  the 
republic  have  continued  those  glories — ces  gloires  ? 
A  iijowd'hui  noiLS  ne  sommes  que  des  morts — instead 
of  prisoners  to  handle — to  watch  and  work,  like  so 
many  good  machines — there  is  only  the  dike  yon- 
der to  keep  in  repair  !  What  changes — mon  Dieu  ! 
what  changes  !  "  And  the  shape  wrung  his  hands. 
It  was,  in  truth,  a  touching  spectacle  of  grief  for  a 
good  old  past. 

An  old  priest,  with  equally  saddened  vision, 
once  came  to  take  his  seat,  quite  easily  and 
naturally,  beside  us,  on  our  favorite  perch.  He 
was  one  of  the  little  band  of  priests  who  had 
remained  faithful  to  the  Mont  after  the  govern- 
ment had  dispersed  his  brothers — after  the  mon- 
astery had  been  broken  up.  He  and  his  four 
or  five  comiDanions  had  taken  refuge  in  a  small 
house,  close  by  the  cemetery;  it  was  they  who 
conducted  the  services  in  the  little  parish  church  ; 
who  had  gathered  the  treasures  still  grouped  to- 
gether in  that  little  interior — the  throne  of  8t. 
Michel,  with  its  blue  draperies  and  the  golden 
fleur-de-lis,  the  floating  banners  and  the  shields  of 
the  Knights  of  St.  Michel,  the  relics,  and  won- 
drous bits  of  carving  rescued  from  the  splendors 
of  the  cathedral. 

"  AJi ,  mesdame's — que  voidez-vous  ?  "  was  the  old 
priest's  broken  chant :  he  was  bewailing  the  woes 
that  had  come  to  his  order,  to  religion,  to  France. 
"What  will  you  have?     The  history  of  nations 


392  THREE  NORMANDY  INNS. 

repeats  itself,  as  we  all  know.  We,  of  our  day,  are 
fallen  on  evil  times ;  it  is  the  reig-n  of  imao^e- 
breakers  —  nothing"  is  sacred,  except  money. 
France  has  worn  herself  out.  She  is  like  an  old 
man,  the  hero  of  many  battles,  who  cares  only  for 
his  easy  chair  and  his  slippers.  She  does  not 
care  about  the  children  who  are  throwing-  stones 
at  the  windows.  She  likes  to  snooze,  in  the  sun, 
and  count  her  money-bag's.  France  is  too  old  to 
care  about  religion,  or  the  future — she  is  thinking- 
how  best  to  be  comfortable — here  in  this  world, 
when  she  has  rheumatism  and  a  cramp  in  the 
stomach  !  "  And  the  old  priest  wrapped  his  own 
soutane  about  his  lean  knees,  suiting  his  g-esture 
to  his  inward  convictions. 

Was  the  priest's  summary  the  last  word  of 
truth  about  modern  France  ?  On  the  sands  that 
lay  below  at  our  feet,  we  read  a  different  answer. 

The  skies  were  still  brilliantly  lig-hted.  The 
actual  twilight  had  not  come  yet,  with  its  long-, 
deep  g'low,  a  passion  of  color  that  had  a  long-er  life 
up  here  on  the  heights  than  when  seen  from  a 
lower  level.  This  twilight  hour  was  always  a  pro- 
longed moment  of  transfiguration  for  the  Mont. 

The  very  last  evening-  of  our  stay,  we  chose  this 
as  the  loveliest  light  in  which  to  see  the  last  of 
the  hill.  On  that  evening,  I  remember,  the  reds 
and  saffrons  in  the  sky  were  of  an  astonishing- 
richness.  The  sea  wall,  the  bastions,  the  faces  of 
the  great  rocks,  the  yellow  broom  that  sprang 
from  the  clefts  therein,  were  dyed  as  in  a  carmine 
bath.  In  that  mighty  glow  of  color,  all  things 
took  on  something  of  their  old,  their  stupendous 


THREE  NORMANDY  INNS.  393 

splendor.  The  giant  walls  were  paved  with 
brightness.  The  town,  climbing-  the  hill,  assumed 
the  proportions  of  a  mighty  citadel ;  the  forest 
tree-tops  were  i^rismatic,  emerald  balls  flung  be- 
neath the  illumined  Merveille  ;  and  the  Cathedral 
was  set  in  a  daffodil  frame ;  its  aerial  escalier  de 
dentelle,  like  Jacob's  ladder,  led  one  easily  heaven- 
ward. The  circling  birds,  in  the  lace-work  of  the 
spiral  finials,  sang  their  night  songs,  as  the  glow 
in  the  sky  changed,  softened,  deepened. 

This  was  the  world  that  was  in  the  west. 

Toward  the  east,  on  the  flat  surface  of  the 
sands,  this  world  cast  a  strange  and  wondrous 
shadow.  Jagged  rocks,  a  pyramidal  city,  a 
Gothic  cathedral  in  mid-air — behold  the  rugged 
outlines  of  Mont  St.  Michel  carving  their  giant 
features  on  the  shifting,  sensitive  surface  of  the 
mirroring  sands. 

In  the  little  pools  and  the  trickling  rivers,  the 
fishermen — from  this  height,  Liliputians  grap- 
pling with  Liliputian  meshes — were  setting  their 
nets  for  the  night.  Across  the  river-beds,  peasant 
women  and  fishwives,  with  bared  legs  and  baskets 
clasped  to  their  bending  backs,  appeared  and  dis- 
appeared— shapes  that  emerged  into  the  light 
only  to  A^anish  into  the  gulf  of  the  night. 

In  was  in  these  pictures  that  we  read  our 
answer. 

Like  Mont  St.  Michel,  so  has  France  carried 
into  the  heights  of  history  her  glory  and  her 
power.  On  every  century,  she,  like  this  world 
in  miniature,  has  also  cast  her  shadow,  dwarfing 
some,   illuminating   others.      And,    as    on   those 


394 


THREE  NORM  ANDY  IXNS. 


distant  sands  the  toiling  shapes  of  the  fishermen 
are  to  be  seen,  early  and  late,  in  summer  and 
winter,  so  can  France  point  to  her  i^eople,  whose 
industry  and  amazing  talent  for  toil  have  made 
her,  and  maintain  her,  great. 

Some  of  these  things  we  have  learned,  since,  in 
Normandy  Inns,  we  have  sat  at  meat  with  her 
peasants,  and  have  grown  to  be  friends  with  hei 
fishwives. 


Catftttrral  Ba^ss 


A  TOUR  IN 
SOUTHERN  ENGLAND 

By   ANNA    BOWMAN    DODD 

New  edition.  Illustrated  with  Sketches 
and  Photographs  by  E.  Eldon  Deane. 
l2mo.      Cloth,     extra.      Price,    $i.^O 


©pinions  on  <3!^at!)ctrral  2iaj>s 

A  fresh  and  ever  readable  author.  —  New  York  Tributie. 

Irving  and  Hawthorne  seem  to  us  the  only  travellers  in  England  who  have 
shown  such  keen  insight  into  the  spirit  of  English  life  as  she  does.  —  Chicago 
Inter-Ocean. 

It  is  no  small  compliment  to  say  that  in  its  new  dress  ...  it  deserves  a 
reception  as  warm  as  the  first.  The  cathedrals  visited  are  Salisbury,  Wells, 
Exeter,  Chichester,  and  Winchester,  and  the  illustrations  include  pictures  of  all 
of  them,  but  the  real  value  of  the  book  comes  from  the  author's  keen  eye  for 
small  details  of  manners,  dress,  and  bearing,  speech  and  voice,  necessary  for  the 
perfection  of  an  imagined  picture  of  a  foreign  land.  —  Ne'w  York  Times. 

There  is  a  freshness,  grace,  and  humor  about  this  description  of  a  tour  in 
Southern  England  that  make  every  step  a  pleasure  and  many  scenes  a  delight.  — 
North  American,  Philadelphia. 

Uncommonly  interesting.  —  Buffalo  Express. 

Mrs.  Dodd's  work  remains  unique  in  our  list  of  travel-books,  and  its  pic- 
tures of  the  English  countryside  remain  in  mind  long  after  the  book  has  been 
laid  aside.  A  word  of  commendation  should  be  expressed  for  the  handsome 
dress  given  the  book  in  paper,  binding  and  illustrations.  —  Art  Interchange. 

There  is  a  careful  setting  forth  of  facts,  historical  and  otherwise,  sand- 
wiched between  personal  experiences  obtained  in  an  unconventional  and  alto- 
gether unguide-book  manner,  and  the  combination  is  irresistible.  —  Chicago 
E-i'ening  Post. 

The  author's  eye  is  quick  and  her  hand  is  sure,  whether  surrounded  by  the 
stately  magnificence  of  a  bishop's  palace  or  the  loveliness  of  lonely  roads  and 
sunny  ri\'ersides.  The  charm  is  not  alone  of  the  subject,  but  of  the  fancy 
which  brightens  the  colors  of  every  view.  The  personal  interest  is  well  man- 
aged, and  the  little  happenings  of  the  way,  often  mirthful  and  sometimes 
pro\oking,  are  never  given  a  word  too  much.  —  San  Francisco  Argonaut, 


ILLUSTRATED  HOLIDAY  EDITION 
By    FRANCIS    PARKMAN 

With  forty  fine  pliotogravure  plates,  including  illustrations  by 
Howard  Pyle,  historical  portraits,  views  of  Quebec  from  contem- 
porary prints,  etc.,  also  illustrated  titlepages.  2  vols.  8vo.  Deco- 
rated cloth,  gilt  top,  with  cloth  wrappers,  and  put  up  in  a  cloth 
box,  56.00. 

A  masterpiece  in  military  history.  —  The  Nation. 

He  has  presented  a  wealth  of  new  information  with  startling  freshness  and 
realism.  —  Ne-w  York  Tribune. 

In  "  Montcalm  and  Wolfe"  Mr.  Parkman  has  told  the  story  of  the  cam- 
paign which  ended  in  the  victory  of  Wolfe  on  the  plains  of  Abraham.  The 
climax  of  this  struggle  between  the  British  and  French  forces  for  the  supremacy 
in  Canada  is  described  with  great  spirit,  and  the  account  of  the  plans  of  the 
young  English  general  and  the  persistency  with  which  he  followed  them  out  is 
a  fine  specimen  of  the  best  historical  narrative.  —  San  Francisco  Chronicle. 

It  is  only  now  that  we  find  ourselves  in  possession  of  an  authentic,  fall,  sus- 
tained, and  worthy  narrative  of  those  momentous  events  and  extraordinary 
men.  — Macmillan''  s  Alagazine. 

"  Montcalm  and  Wolfe"  represents  his  fijll  maturity,  and  is  worthy  of  the 
great  crisis  in  the  history  of  the  world  with  which  it  deals.  It  shows  the 
author  at  his  best  in  laborious  collection  and  criticism  of  manuscript  sources,  in 
breadth  of  view,  in  precision  of  statement,  and  in  sureness  of  touch.  Every 
page  tells  of  careful  study,  of  the  locality  as  well  as  of  the  written  material.  It 
is  the  crown  of  his  work.  —  The  Dial. 


ILLUSTRATED  HOLIDAY  EDITION 
By    ALEXANDRE    DUMAS 

With  numerous  photogravures  and  etchings,  including  original 
pictures  by  E.  Abot,  Felix  Oudart,  Edmund  H.  Garrett,  and 
other  artists,  historical  portraits,  the  Dore  statue  of  D'Artagnan, 
etc.  2  vols.  Crown  8vo.  Decorated  cloth,  with  cloth  wrappers, 
and  put  up  in  a  cloth  box,  $3.50. 

The  immortal  "Musketeers."  —  William  Ernest  Henley. 

Of  Dumas's  famous  creation,  D'Artagnan,  Robert  Louis  Stevenson,  the 
popular  writer,  savs  :  "I  do  not  say  there  is  no  character  as  well  drawn  in 
Shakespeare  ;   I  do  say  there  is  none  that  I  love  so  wholly." 


%itt  at  JHtcftggX  ^ngel0 

By    HERMAN    GRIMM 

Translated  by  Fanny  Elizabeth  Bunnett.  New  edition  with 
additions,  and  forty  photogravure  plates  from  works  of  art.  2  vols. 
8vo.  Maroon  cloth,  gilt  top,  with  choice  cover  design,  in  a  cloth 
box,  $6.00.     Half  crushed  Levant  morocco,  gilt  top,  ;$i2.oo. 

The  two  volumes  include  twenty-three  photogravure  plates  from 
the  masterpieces  of  Michael  Angelo,  together  with  his  portrait. 
The  remaining  seventeen  plates  embrace  works  by  Raphael,  Titian, 
Da  Vinci,  Andrea  del  Sarto,  Botticelli,  Perugino,  Donatello,  Me- 
lozzo  da  Forli,  Giotto,  Fra  Angelico,  Sebastian  del  Piombo, 
Daniele  da  Volterra,  and  Correggio. 

When  we  come  to  Michael  Angelo,  his  sonnets  and  letters  must  be  read 
with  his  Life  by  Vasari,  or  in  our  day  by  Herman  Grimm.  —  Emerson. 

It  was  founded  upon  a  scientific  basis  of  facts,  and  erected  with  accurate  critical 
knowledge.  It  is  not  a  work  that  will  be  soon  superseded  5  and  it  is  a  pleasure 
to  see  this  new  and  handsome  edition  appearing  on  the  book-table.  — John  C. 
Van  Dyke. 

ILLUSTRATED  HO  LID  AT  EDITION 
By    HENRYK    SIENKIEWICZ 

Translated  from  the  Polish  by  Jeremiah  Curtin.  Illustrated 
with  maps  and  plans,  a  portrait  of  the  author,  and  twenty-seven 
photogravure  plates,  including  original  pictures  made  especially  for 
this  production  by  Howard  Pyle,  Edmund  H.  Garrett,  and  Evert 
Van  Muyden.  z  vols.  8vo.  Cloth,  extra,  gilt  top,  with  orna- 
mental cover  designs,  each  volume  in  a  cloth  wrapper,  and  the  set 
in  a  cloth  box  to  match,  $6.00.  Half  crushed  Levant  morocco,  gilt 
top,  51 --oo. 

We  cannot  too  highly  commend  the  insertion,  in  connection  with  illustrative 
plates,  of  such  topographical  realities  as  the  maps  of  ancient  Rome  and  ancient 
Italy  between  Rome  and  Antium,  and  the  plans  of  Roman  houses  similar  to 
those  which  furnish  scenes  for  the  story.  The  intensely  dramatic  passage  of 
ancient  history  which  furnishes  the  materials  for  this  powerful  romance  abounds 
with  scenes  for  the  painter,  and  a  happy  selection  has  been  made  of  subjects 
which  are  either  pleasant  in  artistic  ways,  or  stirring  and  thrilling  with  their 
suggestions  of  dire  tragedy.  —  The  Literary  World. 


cite  3£slcg  nnXf  ^ftrtnc^ 
oi  (Brttct 

By    SAMUEL    J.    BARROWS 

87'o.    Cloth,  gilt  top,  with  ig 
illustrations.        Price,    $2.00 


The  author,  for  sixteen  years  editor  of  the  Christian  Register, 
and  recently  a  member  of  Congress  from  Massachusetts,  is  an 
ardent  Hellenist,  as  indeed  any  one  must  be  who  undertakes  to 
write  a  book  on  Greece.  He  shows  a  lively  sympathy  for  both  the 
old  Greece  and  the  new,  and  his  book  reflects  features  of  ancient 
and  modern  life  which  are  blended  in  the  Greece  of  to-day.  A 
residence  of  several  months  in  Athens  was  employed  not  only  in 
studying  the  rich  monuments  and  collections  of  that  city,  but  also 
in  becoming  acquainted  with  the  many  phases  of  modern  Greek 
life  and  institutions.  The  title  of  the  opening  chapter,  "  The  Old 
Greece  and  the  New,"  well  shows  the  method  employed  through- 
out the  volume.  Everywhere  we  see  the  old  Greece  in  the  new 
and  the  new  Greece  in  the  old.  The  past  and  the  present  are  con- 
tinually intermingling,  and  the  author  does  not  try  to  separate  them. 

He  writes  not  primarily  as  a  scholar,  but  as  a  lover  of  Greece,  her  classical 
associations,  her  art  treasures,  her  historic  memories,  and  also  as  a  deeply 
interested  student  of  modern  social  conditions.  The  book  has  distinct  charm  of 
manner.  It  selects  wisely  what  is  worthy  of  note,  and  comments  clearly, 
pleasantly,  and  colloquially.  The  study  of  Greece  is  broad  and  comprehen- 
sive. We  are  confident  that  this  book  will  form  one  of  the  most  authoritative 
works  on  the  subject  ;   it  is  certainly  one  of  the  most  readable.  —  The  Outlook. 

An  engaging  book  on  an  inspiring  theme.  The  illustrations  are  beautifiil 
reproductions  of  Greek  monuments,  life,  and  scenery.  —  The  Christian  Register. 

Scholarly  readers  will  be  charmed  with  Mr.  Barrows's  book.  While  it 
will  refresh  the  mind  upon  the  classical  lessons  of  long  ago,  the  Greece  of  the 
past,  it  pleasingly  connects  them  with  the  Greece  of  to-day.  His  terse,  clear 
descriptions  of  the  sea,  mountains,  valleys,  and  rivers,  interwoven  with  legends 
and  classic  lore,  are  admirable  in  their  entertainment,  and  as  instructive  as  they 
are   pleasing.  —  Chicago  Inter-Ocean. 


At  Bookstores ;    or  sent,  postpaid,  by  the  Publishers 

LITTLE,  BROWN,  AND    COMPANY 

254  Washington  Street,  Boston 


X 


THE  LIBRARY 
UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 

Santa  Barbara 


THIS  BOOK  IS  DUE  ON  THE  LAST  DATE 
STAMPED  BELOW. 


Series  9482 


